A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six
by BuckeyeBelle
Summary: Old friends arrive from afar, and Optimus' crew has to deal with old, and new, enemies too.
1. Chapter 1

A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

By Becky Ratliff with Vivienne Grainger

(A.N. Transformers belongs to Hasbro and whoever they have allowed the rights to it, which certainly doesn't include me. No money has been made from this fanfic and no copyright infringement is intended. All I own are my OCs.

This story contains religious and spiritual discussion drawn from various religious paths both real and fictional. Those who wish not to be exposed to religions other than their own should turn back now. Warnings: Dubious consent, threesome, complicated pregnancy of a femme seeker, other adult concepts.

This is the eighth story in The Sidhe Chronicles series. Previous stories are "Swords and Jewels," "The Sidhe Chronicles 2: Dark of the Moon," and the first five stories of "A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime." This is a separate AU from the "Come on up for the Rising" verse.

"Normal speech"

::Silent speech (Internal radio or through a bond)::

Scene Break: -Sidhe Chronicles-

The Siege of Magdeburg was an actual historical event in the year 1631. Names, dates and other real-life details were drawn from the "Sack of Magdeburg" article on Wikipedia. I apologize that this site will not allow a link to the citation; you will need to go to Wikipedia and search for it. The last time this history affected the plot, I was accused of making it all up in order to serve a personal agenda of some sort. I have not embroidered the facts of the siege, nor of the atrocities which followed. The only fictionalized elements of this horror concern Diarwen's involvement after the city had already fallen. Placing her there is no different than having one of the modern characters affected by the events of September 11, 2001. History is what it is. But perhaps as the old saying admonishes, we dare not forget our history lest we repeat it.

Mentioned in passing: the Borrowers, which are, of course, from the beloved children's book of the same title by Mary Norton, first published in 1952 by J.M. Dent.

Thanks to my beta and co-author, Vivienne Grainger. /A.N)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A week after Soundwave's crew had raided the Mission City base, things were slowly getting back to normal, or as normal as they could be with energon supplies so short. Optimus Prime, like all the other bots, had shut down the subroutines that sent hunger signals when fuel-level indicators yellow-lined. They would not reactivate until he reached a level that threatened damage if he did not either refuel or enter stasis.

He, like most of the other bots, had chosen to keep his ration until the New Year's Eve party tonight.

It was in the thirties outside, and his apartment was cold, but Optimus turned off the prompts to activate his heating system. It was quite a few degrees too warm to go into cold-induced stasis, and he was unwilling to use energon to alleviate a condition that was merely unpleasant.

He subspaced the datapads he was working on, and went outside. There was still half an hour of sunlight. He transformed and turned broadside to the sun, letting it supply him as much energon as it would, and very carefully called on Fire to warm himself. He did not want to overheat. Feeling like the novice that he was at magic, he grounded the mana that he had not used back to the earth.

Diarwen joined him. "Very nicely done."

"I am glad that someone thinks so," he replied, the ragged edges of his performance still uppermost in his mind.

His teacher smiled at him. "Elegance comes with practice, as it did when you learned to fight. You must be patient with yourself in the meanwhile. The important thing is that you drew very nearly the amount of energy you needed, and grounded the extra back to Mother Earth without creating an excessive disturbance. Those are the objectives for someone at your level of study."

A red, blue and purple femme came outside to enjoy the sun for a bit. Diarwen said, "Who is—wait! I did not know they could do that!"

Optimus rumbled a chuckle. "Chromia and her sisters are indeed a gestalt, Diarwen. They rarely use that form in combat anymore because they have become so deadly with the skirmishing tactics they employ as individuals. But their energon use and heat conservation are much more efficient when combined."

"I thought that you said mecha destined to form a gestalt were sparked at the same time."

"And, indeed, that is so, for a purpose-built gestalt. It is possible, though rare, for a very close group of sparks to choose to modify themselves in order to become a gestalt later in life. Chromia and her sisters did so after the war began. Their gestalt form gives them a survival advantage under some conditions."

"Their aura is different."

"A gestalt is a personality composed of, yet separate from, its component sparks. I apologize that English does not have the concepts for this. The gestalt has its own glyph, composed of the identity glyphs of all three sisters."

"May I see?" She activated her datapad so that he could send her the information. A single, complicated glyph appeared on her screen. She studied it, turning the pad a few times to look at it from different angles. "Why...this looks like...it is. Remind me once I have covered more of the basics to include the making of sigils. Interesting that a glyph-based language has this technique. It is usually found in alphabetic languages."

"There is magic in combining glyphs?"

"Oh, yes. I have taught you that the name of a thing has power. The magic of sigils distills that power to its essence. It is a method of focusing intent."

"We use it chiefly for names. For example, here was the combined glyph of my cohort. You will find all our identity glyphs within it, going back to its formation four generations preceding Ironhide. Ours is the oldest cohort existing among us; therefore its glyph is one of the most complex."

"There is not one for the Primes? Or am I mistaken to believe that a cohort?"

"It is, and once there was such a glyph. It was retired when the Fallen was cast out, and the Primes who survived were too devastated and angry to create a new one. Instead, they began simply to use the Prime glyph which marks each of us."

"I see. There is no war more terrible than than that between rival princes within a house. Such a thing can end in victory for no one."

Optimus gave a low rumble of agreement.

She looked for the designations of those she knew were in Ironhide's cohort glyph. "What do you mean, this _was_ the glyph for your cohort?"

"Now that Ironhide and Colonel Lennox are brothers, it will need to be redrawn. Sunstreaker is working on that for us, but I believe he is not quite sure how it should be done. Perhaps if you were to discuss with him how this is done in alphabetic languages, he might find the information useful."

"I would be happy to do so."

"What are you translating now? More of Chromia's romance novels?"

"Actually, at the moment, no. I am working my way through the collection of sparkling literature for D'andre Epps. I fear you will be receiving a rather large file from me this night. It is necessary to be very precise for him, and I am not certain of the most exact English word to substitute for some of these glyphs. It seems that ambiguity is to be avoided at all costs. As I recall, this was true of my cousin as well. Oh, Optimus, how I wish I could consult with him now."

Optimus recalled that her cousin, whom they now believed to be autistic, worked as an armorer in Tir nan Og. "That would indeed be a good thing. But did not Orthelion tell you that a gate would reopen from Tir nan Og into Ireland one day?"

"He did so prophesy. But I have learned that prophecies are best studied in hindsight. We do not know if that will happen tomorrow, or a thousand years from now."

"True."

Diarwen's phone rang. She noted the caller ID, and said, "Excuse me, it is Monique. It may be something involving D'andre."

"Of course."

She answered, "Is Diarwen. Hello, Monique."

"Are you busy for a little bit? I need someone to watch D'andre while I solve a problem with the twins."

"Of course. Give me five minutes." She glanced up at Optimus' rear view mirror, where she knew he had an optic. "My apologies, _acushla__:_ duty calls."

"I will see you at the New Year's Eve celebration this evening?"

"Yes, I plan to be there."

"I probably will shut down for a little while before then, after the sun goes down."

"Rest well." She barely touched his running board on her way to the Epps apartment.

Neither noticed that Ratchet was observing, with a larger scowl on his faceplates than was usual when he saw them together.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

New Years' Eve was never as big a deal as the Great All-Purpose Holiday Party, but this year Lennox had decided they needed an excuse to cut loose a little bit after the raid. There would be no alcohol, out of solidarity with the bots.

The bots themselves had turned over any high grade they had to Ratchet, who kept it for medicinal purposes.

This was an opportunity for everyone to come together, have some fun, make a lot of noise, and get back to normal—something very much needed after the raid shattered everyone's sense of security. The bots planned it so that everyone could be awake, and those who were not in stasis had saved up rations to welcome in the new year.

Laughter and music overcame the echoes of battle in the commons. They had the Las Vegas fireworks on the big screen, and everyone yelled along with the countdown.

A lot of people followed the custom of kissing at the stroke of midnight. Optimus held Diarwen to his spark for a moment, before lifting her to his shoulder where she could see the screen without a lot of six-foot-tall soldiers blocking her view of the bottom half.

Hardly anyone in the crowd noticed that brief gesture—but Ratchet did.

And he was entirely Not Amused.

If everyone else was blind to the threat that the Sidhe presented to his Prime, Ratchet was not. It was time to do something about her. He didn't know yet what that would be.

But he would.

The Autobots had learned a long time ago that Ratchet would be Ratchet, and that attempts to cheer him up would not be appreciated. Therefore, when he went back to his office, he received a few "Happy New Years" and "good nights," but no one tried to persuade him to stay.

Ratchet was a wily old bag of sprockets. He knew internet usage from the base was monitored—that was standard operating procedure on any military base. If he logged into Google through the base's internet connection, it would be easy for anyone, even the humans, to discover what he downloaded.

But he had figured out that humans and their computers couldn't send a point of presence through the hardlines to another node outside the base. It required using a workaround such as a program running on their computer that allowed remote control of a machine located outside the base. Further, if a human wished to carry out stealth operations, that human would have to find a process that left no evidence in the base systems that they had done so.

It was simple for him, however, during his many uploads of medical data, to use the servers at O'Callaghan to remotely surf the net. Since he was already using them for a legitimate reason, there was no exceptionally long internet usage to attract attention.

It was much easier to cover up his tracks at O'Callaghan, as well. When he was finished, no evidence of his extracurricular activities remained.

He was trained in working with a mech's coding. In comparison, non-sentient computers were sparkling's play.

Jazz was perhaps better at some kinds of reprogramming—but not even Jazz exceeded Ratchet at leaving no evidence of changes made. Leaving "footprints" behind could result in lifelong glitches rather than a seamless incorporation of the new code. Causing a patient's problems, instead of solving them, was a level of craftsmanship Ratchet would not accept.

So, seamlessly, he covered his tracks as he found information on the Sidhe. Most was clearly fictional, and could be disregarded as a product of the author's imagination. Some found on Wiccan and Pagan sites seemed potentially factual. And Kindle files were, so to speak, an open book to Ratchet, so he was not limited to blogs and Witchvoice.

The useful information he wrote to memory for later study—which he was conducting now.

Since Ratchet had no proof that Diarwen had done anything harmful, anything he did would have to be harmless unless she took action against his Prime. His research gave him several promising ideas. All that remained was deciding which one to use.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sam Witwicky got off the bus near George Washington University, a stone's throw from the White House.

The Washington Monument rose into the clear blue sky at the far end of the Washington Mall. He'd lived and worked here for almost a year now, but all told, the city still felt like something out of legend to Sam. Even when he was getting off a loud, crowded bus that smelled of diesel and unwashed fellow passengers, and carefully stepping over a squashed hot dog that lay on the curb, dropped by a lazy—or tardy—passenger who could not take it on the bus, for him, the capital city of the United States had magic.

Sometimes he still felt like pinching himself to make sure he really was a cog in the machine that kept the country moving—even if he was a very small cog—and not just daydreaming to get through a stupefyingly easy statistical analysis class back at Princeton.

He checked the street numbers to make sure he was going the right way, and eventually found himself in front of a large office building.

The doors to the lobby shut out much of the commotion of rush hour traffic. There was no building receptionist. He joined a small group of people at the directory and located the office he needed.

The Hunt Research Agency took up the entire sixth floor. Like S13 and S5, the Agency masqueraded as a simple, mundane office whose workers pushed papers of indeterminate origin around their desks all day. In their case, the shelves of psychology books and the waiting-room arrangement of the reception area led the casual visitor to assume they had something to do with the psychology department at the nearby university. Anyone who pressed for more information would eventually learn that they were involved in parapsychology research.

Occasionally, someone with real talent found their way here. For the sum of $25.00 per hour, adjusted on a sliding scale for income, the agency would test that potential. They would also provide those who had just enough ability to make their lives Chinese-curse interesting with the training to understand and control it.

Olivia Hunt, the agency's director, considered that a public health service. Her clients usually went away happy that there was indeed a reasonable explanation for the phenomena that they had been experiencing, and contentedly went back to their normal lives until the next major occurrence. In this way, Olivia had cultivated a network of minor psi-talents who would pick up the phone and call her if they had a flash of something that they couldn't explain in their day-to-day lives. Often such a flash usually required only reassurance, or a simple conversation with someone who knew they weren't crazy. But if her phone was ringing off the hook with reports, that was an indication that something big was in the works.

Even more rarely, a client who had a high level ability, was either very sensitive or very accurate, walked through the door, and they were recruited whenever possible. Depending on their security clearance, they might find work with the CIA or military intelligence. Some joined an agency that provided "psychic consultants" to police and sheriffs' departments all over the country, and some had gone on to careers in law enforcement.

Then there were the emergency cases—young people in danger of abuse from their families who did not understand their abilities, for the most part. Hunt worked with children's services and, if necessary, the Sectors' legal department in those cases, and had a very well-vetted list of foster homes able to take the kids in at short notice if all else failed. Which, sadly, it did with depressing regularity.

Sam knew all this because, before going to work at Portman, Bailey and Fitch, he had worked for NEST Director Charlotte Mearing, who was responsible for all the Sectors, including Sector 11.

He had not expected to need to come here as a client.

The receptionist, Karina Haubrich, was accepting a check from a middle-aged lady who looked like she would have been more at home bird watching than practicing with Zener cards. The lady put her checkbook back into her purse and said, "See you next week!"

"Have a good afternoon, ma'am!"

"Thanks, you too!"

Sam got the door for her. "Hi, Ms. Haubrich. I've got an appointment at 5:30 with Dr. Hunt."

"Yes, it's through the door and straight back. She's expecting you. It's good to see you again, Sam."

"I suspect I'll be here pretty regularly for a while at least."

"You, too?"

"Yes, ma'am, apparently so."

"Welcome to the club," she smiled. Karina had just enough talent that she never had to worry about losing her car keys or missing an important phone call. She was content to keep the office running smoothly for the benefit of those whose talents tended to take over their entire lives—not a circumstance that she envied them.

"Yes, ma'am," Sam replied.

Olivia had her door open. She was on the phone, and waved Sam in. He sat down on one of the chairs in front of her desk, and studied the diplomas and framed pictures of her daughters on her brag wall as he waited for her to wrap up the call.

There was a small voice recorder on the desk in front of her with the switch in the "Off" position, mute assurance that whatever Sam said here would remain here, even if someone reenacting the Watergate burglary took a snoop through her office.

She concluded the call promptly. "Sorry about that, Sam, unfortunately it was a pretty important call. What seems to be the problem? Charlotte and Optimus both checked to make sure I could get you in soon."

"May I close the door?"

"Of course."

Sam reached over to push it closed. "Did they say why? I mean, is there some kind of a problem they haven't told me about?"

Olivia said, "No one's been especially forthcoming about what's going on with you to me, either. I presume that you experienced an event?"

"Several. Um, related events. Just so you know, a lot of this is still classified. Director Mearing assures me that your clearance is high enough, but it's included in your non-disclosure agreement."

"I understand. I'll treat everything as classified information."

"Thanks. Sorry to have to pull that on you, but..."

"It isn't a problem at all."

"OK. You know, when Megatron was killed the first time at Mission City, I destroyed the All-Spark to do it. Or, at least, we thought I had. What was really destroyed, though, was only its vessel. The All-Spark itself was—well, I don't think we really understand what it was, but let's call it a form of energy."

Hunt nodded.

"I was the closest vessel handy. I carried it for two years, and it made some changes to make itself more at home. Among other things, I started having psychic episodes. Flashes of things that haven't happened yet. Viewing things in real time, at a distance. And, some things that aren't necessarily 'psychic' but definitely weren't talents I had before. I pick up on relationships between events. I understand cause and effect, and see connections between events. And, I breezed through all the training that Director Mearing and Colonel Lennox could put me through. I was never exactly what you'd call a couch potato, but I wasn't special forces material, by a long shot."

"Do you still...I need a good word here..._contain..._that energy?"

"No. It left me a while ago. But the changes it made seem permanent."

"I see. Be more specific about these psychic episodes."

"The first one was two years ago, at Princeton..." Sam told her the whole story, and it sounded even more crazy when he tried to explain it in so many words. "So, that's it. I knew these other bots were coming before they got close enough to make radio contact."

"But isn't that wonderful, that so many more Cybertronians have been found alive and safe?"

"Yes, of course it is. Excellion is going to make a big commotion when he lands. Optimus said Excellion makes him look like an ant, if you can imagine that. But so many friends and relatives are going to be reunited that I really don't care how much hoopla there is in the press about it. After everything that's happened, they deserve some happiness."

"Absolutely. I wonder if they'd let us watch him come in for a landing?"

"Well, you know, I think it would be great if there was a crowd there? You know, like when the troops come home from Afghanistan? These people are coming home from the wars, too. I think we should do that. If we talk to the director about it, I'm sure she'll say yes."

"I'll do that. When do you think it will happen?"

"I couldn't tell from my vision, but Optimus told me they'll make planetary orbit in nineteen days, and they'll be allowed to land on the base."

"What do you mean, allowed to land? That sounds ominous."

"We don't know yet what their status will be after that. Optimus and the rest of the Autobots are legal aliens, with green cards and everything. The former 'Cons are detainees. They can't leave the base without an Autobot or NEST escort. These new guys are all either Autobots or neutrals, so they shouldn't be detainees, but we don't know yet what their immigration status will be. We think the new Autobots will be able to get green cards fairly easily, because we know there are still 'Con combatants out there. But the neutrals, well, they're neutrals because they aren't fighters. We think right now they'll get some kind of refugee status, but that's still up in the air."

"Wow. I never thought about immigration issues where the Cybertronians were concerned."

He nodded, this unprepossessing fellow you could order by the dozen from Central Casting. His clothes, though, were expensive. Not showily so, but chosen with care for quality: which alone made him unusual. But all he said was, "Yeah. Nothing's simple."

Olivia nodded thoughtfully. "All right. Let's break this down. The All-Spark created several measurable changes. Your physical and mental abilities are both greater than they were before this happened. But those are separate issues from the psychic phenomena that fall within my area of expertise. So far, you've demonstrated three distinct abilities, precognition, astral projection and clairvoyance.

"Now, when I say they're separate issues, I don't mean they're completely unrelated to more easily explained areas of your life. Your precognitive abilities may be coming into play when you describe your talent at data analysis. Knowing which outcome is most likely certainly helps with that. You can expect your skill with data analysis to grow as you gain better control over your abilities.

"But what I'm saying is, these are the areas of study where I can teach you."

"What do you want me to do?"

"There are various tests for psychic ability that we've developed over the years. We can get started with some of the preliminary ones this evening. Have you ever heard of Zener cards?"

Sam frowned. "Five symbols, and you try to predict which one will come up next?"

"Yes. A score of 20 percent is consistent with random chance. A score that is significantly and consistently better than that indicates a degree of predictive talent. Ready to give it a try?"

"I guess so."

Olivia opened her laptop and booted it up while she took out a deck of cards, and shuffled and cut them a few times. "There are twenty-five Zener cards, five of each of five different symbols. You will tell me which symbol is coming up next before I look at the card. In that way, we can be sure you're predicting the card, not reading my mind."

"OK."

"Do you need to do anything specific to focus your mind before we start?"

"What do you mean?"

"Some people focus on a crystal or a candle flame, for instance."

"I've been asleep every time it happened," Sam explained.

"That's a common story. When you're asleep, your conscious mind isn't acting like a traffic cop, telling you this can't be real. You'll probably have to consciously accept that this is really happening before you can go any further while you're awake."

"Makes sense."

"All right, concentrate on the top card, and tell me the first symbol that comes to your mind."

Sam did so. Olivia recorded his results, but didn't tell him as he went along whether each call was right or wrong. After they went through the deck, she added up his score.

"Very good. Forty percent."

"That's better than the statistical average, but I was still wrong sixty percent of the time."

"It isn't an exact science. I'm considered fairly good at this, and I score around eighty percent."

"What can I do to improve?"

"Practice," Olivia told him. "Simple things are best. Every time a commercial break comes up when you're watching TV, try to determine what commercials will be played. Predict the winners of a day's sporting events. What you're trying to do is recognize the state of mind that you need to be in before you can tap into your abilities. Everyone does this differently. I use meditation and biofeedback techniques. Jarrell is a martial artist, so he does katas for half an hour or so to get into the right mindset. Adele Hempstead of S13 meditates using a certain incense before attempting a Tarot reading. You'll have to learn what works best for you."

"Is this science or magic? And I know, any sufficiently advanced science..."

"I believe that what I'm doing is science. It's repeatable, testable, and I don't have to cast spells, or call on help from beyond. I think that magic and science are two different ways of looking at the world. We may be studying the same phenomena, but learning different things and getting there by different methods."

Sam nodded.

Olivia went on, "Next, I'd like you to try reading photographs. This is Jarrell's strongest talent, and if you share it, it's the best way I know to train clairvoyance. I'm going to give you a series of photographs of places that I'm very familiar with, so I'll have a good idea how accurate your readings are."

"OK."

"I want you to study the photos, calm yourself and reach a state where you can see the place as if you were standing there. You said that you're an astral projector. At this point, don't try to _go_ there. Instead, I want you to remain here, but experience the place with your senses."

"All right. Let me see the first one."

She handed over a picture of an old, ivy-covered barn. Sam took a deep calming breath as he examined the photo, trying to feel the energy of the place.

"I hear bells? Cowbells? It's very cold—of course, it's winter. I can smell wood smoke. There's a dog barking."

"Excellent! This farm is in Vermont, and it's a dairy. It belongs to my college roommate's family. If you're standing looking at the barn, there's a farm house with a wood stove behind you, and they have a dog. The chances are very good that you're highly accurate with that one. Now, return to this room and clear your mind, and then we'll try another one."

The next photo was of a beach, with a small girl in an old-fashioned bathing suit building a sandcastle. Sam said, "That's you...but I'm not really getting anything else. Is there something especially significant about this picture?"

"It was taken on a family vacation at Myrtle Beach. Nothing out of the ordinary happened, though."

"This other picture looks more recent. Maybe that's it."

"Maybe. There may have been enough changes over the years that it no longer reads as the same place to you. Some people hit on this picture and some don't. I think it's probably significant that you recognized me in the photo."

They went on with the exercise until Sam started getting a headache. At that, Dr. Hunt called a halt. "Sam, you're one of the stronger talents I've ever met. If you were anyone else, I'd be recruiting you right now. But, since I think I'd be in a bit of trouble for poaching you, we'll concentrate on training. I'd like you to come in once a week, if that will work for you?"

"I think I'm going to have to make it work. I need to learn to control this. My visions have already saved lives. I can't miss one."

"You won't. But we're only human when it comes to interpreting them. Ten years ago, I had a vision so strong it gave me a migraine that knocked me flat on my back. I saw crowds of people running from a cloud that was rolling down the street like a tidal wave. I had no idea what it was and neither did any of the other CIA analysts I was working with at the time. That was September 8th, 2001."

His eyes opened wide. "Oh, my God."

"Yes. When the attack happened, when I saw news coverage of the towers' collapse...I still have nightmares, Sam, where hundreds of people are pointing fingers at me and asking me why I didn't warn them."

"There is no way you could have known what that was. You couldn't possibly have warned anyone."

"That's my point. We do the best we can. Sometimes it isn't enough, there just isn't enough information. But since then, I've made it a point to network with as many psis as I can, so that no one of us has to deal with a strong warning like that alone. I hope that network means we'll be in contact with each other when we hit on the same event, and pick up on different details. That should improve our accuracy. That's the best we can do."

Sam nodded. "Thanks, Dr. Hunt."

"Have you had any training in meditation?"

"A little, while I was at school after...we came back from Egypt."

"I want you to meditate for at least fifteen minutes before you go to bed every night. Calm yourself and set aside the stress of the day. I think that will help you focus."

"Thanks, Doc."

Hunt smiled. "I'll see you next week. Stop and see Karina on your way out to work out a schedule. Have a good evening, Sam."

"You too."

Sam, his new schedule set, hurried to the metro station on a cold, dark winter night.

(End Part One)


	2. Chapter 2

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Two

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The senior officers' meeting back at the Mission City base took place in Optimus' office the next morning. Once everyone's ration of energon or coffee and donuts had been distributed, Optimus looked around to be sure everyone was there—Ratchet, Jazz, Prowl, Ironhide, and Chromia for the bots; Lennox, Graham, and Parker from the human side of things. They were physically in their seats, which was probably about the best that could be expected first thing on a Monday morning with the bots on short rations. At Lennox' nod, he called the meeting to order.

"Where are we on preparing a landing pad for Excellion?"

Ironhide said, "Well, without the Tractor Crew, the Wreckers are pretty short-handed. We don't have time for human concrete to cure, and we haven't had the chance to salvage enough scrap from the _Ark_ to build him a proper pad. The only thing we can do is clear an area down to bedrock and let him fuse it when he lands. That's a quick and dirty method the merchant houses used megavorn ago when they were starting trade with a new planet. This sandstone should melt fairly easily,so that Excellion can engage his cooling system to solidify it. We'll need to make sure the area is clear, because we can expect a certain amount of fragmentation, and he might have to make more than one attempt. Once that's done, he's down and settled, we'll run utility lines from the work site. All that's proceeding on schedule."

"That is good to hear. Ratchet, what is our status with energon consumption?"

"On budget. I do need to report, though, that a number of bots have been supplementing their energon ration with human jet fuel."

Chromia asked, "Does that even work?"

Ironhide said, "Yeah, it does. It's the only thing we can do and have enough energon in reserve to be ready to fight if we have to."

Ratchet said, "Your lines are gonna look like sludge pipes after a few orn on that stuff. And we don't have a starter stock of the cleaner nanites that would have colonized your lines and kept the gunk cleared out. I won't be responsible for the unpleasantness that's going to be required to ream them out manually."

Ironhide made a face. "You do what you gotta do, Doc."

"I know it. Do the two sets of twins know what they're letting themselves in for?"

"Sides and Sunny do. I spelled it out for the Little Twins."

"I'll set up for the procedure. You'll be out for that, but the recovery—!" He whistled a Cybertronian oath. "Come in when you start throwing fuel line restriction errors."

"Aft-firmative," Ironhide replied wryly.

"And keep Barricade out of that stuff. His lines aren't strong enough to take the risk. He could blow one if it occludes and builds up pressure."

"I'll pass the word."

Chromia said, "So will I. We don't need anyone doing himself a mischief."

Lennox asked, "Anything new to report about the protesters out front?"

Graham said, "So far the organizations represented are Earth for Humans, which appears to be formed from a loose coalition of racist organizations, the Eastland Church, and the American Council, an anti-immigration group which the Southern Poverty Law Center has listed as a hate group. It's that last group that has law enforcement most concerned. They believe that the American Council is the extremist arm of a movement which has ties to conservative political organizations. They exist to keep their political allies insulated from illegal activity. Up until now, their focus has been on the Mexican border. A number of the protesters have guns in their vehicles. It's a volatile situation."

Lennox said, "They are not to be allowed past the gate. I do not want a situation developing where a bot has to engage these morons in order to protect dependents."

"Sir," Graham acknowledged.

Lennox went on, "I saw a news truck out there. Prowl, how hard would it be to intercept their raw feed?"

"Not hard at all, Colonel."

"Then put it through to admin. Same thing with any other news crews that show up. If any of the right-wing networks out there try to fire up a confrontation, I want to know about it before it hits the air."

"I'll get it done this morning," the tactician replied.

"Thank you." Lennox nodded to Optimus.

Optimus said, "We are going to have more than two hundred civilian Cybertronians here—depending on how many are able to fight if necessary, and how many can be defined as reserve troops, that number could be closer to two hundred fifty. What services will we be able to provide them, and what will definitely be lacking? Ratchet, can medical deal with a migration of this size?"

"Supplies will be limited to what they have with them, Prime. It's going to be frontier medicine at best," Ratchet answered grimly. "We need to salvage the _Ark, _as well as the Fallen's ship, if we can find it_. _Beyond that, I hope some of those civilians have the skills necessary to produce the supplies and components we need. Otherwise, bots who could otherwise be repaired will have to be reformatted into those Pretender frames."

Everyone in the room, Cybertronian and human alike, went "Ewww" at the thought. No one did this audibly; they were professionals, if squicked-out ones.

"Excellion may make it possible to recover those ships," Prowl said. "That will buy us time. But if we are to survive in the long term, we will need more advanced fabrication capacity than is available here."

"Eventually," Prime said. "I think we may need to prove ourselves to the humans for one or two of their generations before they will be comfortable trusting us with that. Or, they will not be, and we will have to move on once the Decepticon threat to them is neutralized."

Prowl was silent for a moment. "I do not have the necessary information to give you probabilities, Prime. Either outcome is possible."

Optimus nodded. "Many humans do not see our factional differences, only the beings who laid waste to one of their great cities. As unfair as it is to our soldiers and especially to neutral refugees, we still need to live that down."

Lennox said, "Money makes the world go round, Prime. They'll have to see a benefit. As a general rule, if they can't have it, they won't want you to use it either."

"As a general rule, Will, I am forced to question whether technologies that I would not supply to you should be in our hands, either. Our kind went too far, and we as a race did not prove ourselves responsible stewards. I believe that in rebuilding, we need to seriously think about whether the things we want are truly things that we need. Ratchet, did not all the cityformers have limited foundry and fabrication capabilities?"

"Yes, they did. But Excellion has been at war for most of his function. Like all Autobots, he has modified himself into a warframe, so those processes may have been sacrificed. Also, he was barely an adult at Tyger Pax. I do not know what he has developed and what needs he may have, himself, so I can't give you a definitive answer about his capabilities until after he lands and I have the chance to examine him."

"How crowded are the conditions on Excellion likely to be? Will we need to house these bots?"

"I doubt it. Three hundred is not a large population even for a small cityformer."

Graham said, "Forgive me if this is an impertinent question, but were many of the cities on Cybertron sparked beings?"

Optimus smiled, "Not impertinent at all, Alistair. During the height of the Golden Age, the six great city-states of Cybertron—Iacon, Praxus, Vos, Tarn, Polyhex and Simfur—were large enough to each have a few neighborhoods, if you will, that were in fact cityformers. Some smaller towns also were sparked beings. Understand that, at our civilization's height, our population was nearly as numerous as your own—though spread throughout the planets of the Empire, not confined to Cybertron.

"Most cityformers were members of the traveling merchant clans who traded throughout Cybertronian space. Rather than staying in one place, they would visit a world, buy and sell for a while, replenish their energon supply, and then the entire clan would move on.

"Cityformers were by and large a part of history before I was sparked. They were the first to suffer from the energon crisis. Most reformatted into smaller frames long ago. That is why, while very large compared to us, Excellion is actually among the smallest of his frame-type, and was designed to be extremely energon-efficient."

Graham nodded. "I have to say...it's a bit of a culture shock to me to learn that your people might live their lives within one of you."

"The sparks who inhabited cityformer frames were known for their dedication to service. They took great joy and pride in caring for their inhabitants, in being a good place for others to live. I think, as you say, this is a cultural thing, but humans have that same drive to care for and protect those under your aegis. It is the...concept of a living city, a being like yourselves but an actual city…that is alien, not the personalities of the individuals involved."

Parker said, "I believe this might be a difficult concept for a lot of humans, though. To us, it's difficult to separate mind, body and soul—they all make up who we are. To you, a 'person' is the spark and processor which give life to a frame, is that not correct?"

"Essentially, yes. In a normal cycle of Cybertronian life, we will be reformatted into multiple frames, at least a half-dozen of them and potentially more. The Elder Conservator Milestrina, for instance, has lived over a quarter-million years. While venerable even by our standards, she is not the only one to have done so. I have no idea how many times she has reformatted, but a frame can be expected to last us about 20,000 years, barring violence or excessive wear."

"Therefore, if we were to translate the glyphs you use to describe cityformers literally, am I right to guess that they would say Excellion's passengers also inhabit his frame, rather than saying that they live within him?"

"You're absolutely right," Chromia said, having spent several joor recently helping Diarwen produce such literally accurate translations for D'andre Epps' benefit. "Our sense of something similar to that, I think, would be if you were carrying around—what are those very tiny beings who live in mouse holes in some of your children's stories—a family of Borrowers in a backpack that you always wore. Now imagine that you could easily, and without any trauma at all, create the backpack to carry them in, from the materials making up your own body. Then you would be a cityformer for the Borrowers."

"I think what might creep some humans out about this is the perceived lack of privacy," Parker said, as diplomatically as possible. "Some of us are going to have problems getting used to the idea of an intelligent structure that knows what his inhabitants are doing at all times."

Jazz laughed. "What makes you think a cityformer would _want _to know? Or to have the inhabitants all up in _his_ business 24/7? There's a certain amount of willful ignorance goin' on there, doc, non-physical barriers erected, sensors turned off. We all go out of our way not to monitor where we know we ain't wanted, same for a cityformer as anybot else. Our culture puts a value on privacy, too."

Prowl said, "I hesitate to suggest this, Prime, but does not the Eternal Flame in the temple produce its own energon? Might that be useful in the circumstances?"

"No, Prowl, it would not be."

Ratchet put in, "It doesn't create that much."

Prime nodded. "Exactly. The tradeoff – it would not provide enough energon to compensate for the sacrifice of the comfort it brings some of us."

Prowl bowed his head in acquiescence. Optimus could tell the tactician had filed that information away for consideration, and thought, not for the first time, that it must be difficult to be Prowl.

They worked through the rest of their agenda with speed; it held no items of importance. By the time the meeting broke up, the sun was high enough in the sky for the bots to generate their own energon, and they all went outside.

Parker went out the back door and watched them distributing power cables and making themselves comfortable.

She had the disquieting sense that she had forgotten something important, and ran through her usual checklist—cellphone, keys, wallet, ID badge. Johnny's book bag had been packed the night before, and he'd grabbed his lunch-and-snacks bag out of the refrigerator on the way out this morning, so that was all good.

She went back to her office and checked her to-do list. She had not forgotten anything there, but there were several reports from the ward clerks that she needed to sign. Sighing, she reached for her pen and pulled the top form off the stack. Many things had been computerized, but she doubted the military would ever completely wean itself from forms that needed to be submitted in triplicate.

A day of medical practice on a military base closed in over her head.

She didn't figure out what was bothering her until she woke late that night, sitting up straight in her bed. She suppressed the urge to shout "Eureka!"

The bots were gathering organic sludge in their fuel lines from the use of fossil fuels. That sludge would need to be removed periodically. The mechanical methods that Ratchet was considering would work, but maybe there was another way that wouldn't be as unpleasant for the bots. Some fuels would act as solvents for the sludge. The most efficient, she thought, would probably be reagent-grade ethanol—AKA 180 to 200 proof alcohol.

After a quick, excited phone call to Ratchet, which sent him straight from his berth to the lab, Parker rolled over and went back to sleep.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Wheeljack said, "It'll work. Assuming that we start the process at the first sign of fuel line restriction, it should take approximately .75 orn to clear the contamination."

Ratchet said, "They're still not gonna like it. Ethanol doesn't have enough energy for us to run on. They'll feel like they're starving for three quarters of an orn."

Wheeljack thought about it. "If they'd really rather, they could still have their lines reamed, but I know which one I'll be doing."

"Why didn't we think of this?" Ratchet said, hands busy and processor scanning the internet.

"Because we don't have a traditional study of organic chemistry," Wheeljack replied. "We're not organic, and we're not from an organic world, so there's been no need for that knowledge up to this point. There are a lot of substances here that we'll find uses for, but more often than not I think we will have those uses pointed out to us by people who already understand the field of study inside out and backwards."

Ratchet clicked a sullen agreement as he finished cleaning up his laboratory bench. He wasn't accustomed to other people coming up with better solutions than his own. It helped his patients, and that was all that should matter. Jealousy had no legitimate place in medical practice.

All the same, he wouldn't turn down the opportunity to expand his base of knowledge. He sent cost-comparisons of reagent-grade ethanol from various suppliers to Wheeljack and began to search the Internet for information on organic chemistry. The humans already had a curriculum; he would catch up. In the meanwhile, he owed Parker an economy-sized thanks.

Wheeljack initiated his search for sources of ethanol of the quality that they would require, in the necessary quantities. That search quickly narrowed to industrial supply firms. Medical grade was highly expensive, but the Cybertronians did not require a product suitable for human consumption.

Some human farmers already were producing their own ethanol for use as fuel, and received tax credits for doing so. Living in the desert as they did, it was not practical at the moment for them to follow suit. They would have to purchase their ethanol from a commercial source. Luckily, several were available.

He saw no reason why they could not, in the future, acquire land suitable for growing the necessary crops and build a distillery. Were it placed far enough south, they could also produce energon, if he could discover a practical method for building energon cubes from materials available on Earth.

"Ratchet, if we cut our energon with ethanol instead of petroleum products, we won't have a problem with contaminant build-up in the future."

"That means the bots who have been using jet fuel will only have to go through this cleanse once, to get rid of the contamination that already exists."

"We need to get a supply in and run some tests," Wheeljack said.

Ratchet sighed. He knew what that meant. Ethanol was explosive, and Wheeljack _would_ find some novel way to blow it up. "Find out what's available locally and fill out a requisition form."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Calvin Torvald said, "There's absolutely no way this—this transfer of consciousness can be made legal in Illinois or Nevada, Mr. Hastings. I'm sorry, but according to the law, it results in the patient's death. We don't have a legal precedent for becoming a robot. At best, it's assisted suicide, which is illegal in forty-eight states: all of them except Oregon and Washington. Even there, there is a lengthy legal process. The patient must be of sound mind, this must be confirmed by a doctor and other witnesses, and the patient must be diagnosed with a terminal illness with no more than six months to live. There's a fifteen-day waiting period following the initial request."

Hastings sipped his coffee and looked out over Wacker Drive. Several stories of the new Hastings Building were under construction, with bare steel and a construction crane looming overhead. From here, he could see the construction crews swarming over the building, bringing it back to life.

The whole of Chicago was experiencing rebirth. Just as Derek Pierpoint had.

"That will work in our favor," Timothy Zain said. "There'll be a body, a funeral, the whole bit. No questions asked. And it isn't illegal to come back to life as a robot, is it?"

Torvald laughed. "I think I can state with a fair degree of certainty that even the strangest state legislatures haven't thought to pass laws against it…yet. The trouble is going to be providing identities for these people once they've, ah, transitioned. If they're going to operate in society, they'll need identification, credit cards, all of that."

Hastings said, "We can figure that out later, Cal."

"Yes, sir. Getting a doctor on board in Oregon or Washington will be all you'll have to do, then."

"We have someone at Area 51 who can do that. Lowell, I'll want the dossiers on the twelve best candidates to start with on my desk in the morning."

Cal figured that he'd be up all night; but he was, and knew it, well-paid for such inconveniences. "They'll be ready, Mr. Hastings."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sunstreaker stepped back to examine the quality of the afternoon light streaming through a window opening onto a freshly plastered wall. He had chosen this particular plaster because it had a very similar texture to the local adobe bricks, but was much more durable than baked mud, and would not produce the atmospheric dust common to adobe. He adjusted his optics to see the wall in several shades of light cream, choosing the best background color for the mural his Dineh friend, Atsidii, had offered to paint on his berthroom wall.

Once he had made his choice, he emailed the color to the paint store as a numerical code. It would be mixed to his specifications and he would receive an email when it was ready for him to pick up. Once the wall was painted and dried completely—which would happen very quickly in this low humidity—a spray with a fixative topcoat of his own devising would extend the fade-resistant life of the paint, and prep the surface for the mural.

There was a polite scratch at the door frame, even though no doors had yet been installed on this floor. He looked, then looked down, to see Alicia Parker standing there. "Good joor, Sunstreaker."

"And to you, Craftmaster. Be welcome in my home—such as it is."

"Thank you." She stepped into the echoing space, and Sunstreaker thought it must seem cavernous to someone roughly one-fourth his height, although it was proportionally similar to a human's studio. "Oh, the light in here is wonderful!"

"Yes, I have Burnout to thank for that. He calculated the angle of the sun when he chose an area for my quarters."

"I'll bet the view from up here is amazing. We must be near the top of the cliff."

"About two-thirds of the way up. The top level is flyers' aeries, built in a circle around an open courtyard. They get nervous if they can't see the sky. Would you like a lift up to the windowsill?"

"Thank you." She stepped fearlessly onto his servo, and he cupped his digits to give her something to hold onto. Her sense of balance was excellent, however, she barely gripped his plating at all.

He had covered the windowsill with Mexican-style enameled tile. She paused to admire the tile work before she walked to the edge and looked out over the desert valley where the Wreckers were clearing sand from the bedrock to create a landing pad for Excellion. There would be a relatively large open plaza between the cliff residences and the city-former, once he landed and transformed.

"Will that creek be a problem for him when it floods?"

"You mean another flash flood, like the one Ironhide got caught in? I doubt it, but we'll tell him about it. He might be happier if we build a levee to keep it away from him."

"How does his design differ from yours, other than size—if you don't mind me asking? A sedentary lifestyle is contraindicated for most bots, isn't it? But from the sound of things, a cityformer may stay in one place for a very long time without transforming."

"The difference, basically, is that shipformers and cityformers have modified circulatory systems and nanite colonies to prevent fuel and lubricants from pooling, and transformation mechanisms from seizing. Another difference is that, while his major plating will remain stationary, there will be a great deal of movement within his frame. Everything from systems that deliver energon to sidewalk conveyers and configurable living spaces, as well as doors and airlocks and so forth. In this environment, he'll have to modify himself for air circulation as well, because that's the most efficient way to control temperature. For anything more detailed than that, you'll have to ask Ratchet."

"Thank you for explaining. I'm afraid I'm absolutely fascinated with the idea of a being that large."

"Some people believe Cybertron was the frame of Primus. I don't know about that, since Primus still exists, and Wheeljack's convinced the planet would have been destroyed when we took down Sentinel's ground bridge," Sunstreaker replied.

"That's a little beyond my scale of reference," Parker said.

"I know what you mean," Sunstreaker replied. "Can I ask something? How do you know your deities exist, if you can't perceive them with your senses?"

"Well, those with faith would probably tell you that faith is the evidence of things not seen. As for me personally? I don't know that I have religious beliefs. I'll take your word for it that there is an Entity known as Primus and that you have been in contact with Him. But I am a woman of science, and I have no personal observations to that effect. I suppose you'd have to say that I'm an agnostic, because I have no evidence one way or the other as to the existence or nonexistence of deities. I am aware that compared to others, my senses are limited. I do know that belief in Them can enable patients to do some amazing things, so I'd be the last person to discourage faith in those who have found it."

"Have I got my English mixed up? I don't think it's faith, or belief, if you do have direct knowledge, is it?"

"I don't know. I suppose not. The culture in which I was raised doesn't presuppose that kind of direct knowledge, so I don't have a reference for it. But, from listening to Diarwen, and Betony when she's been here, I think those who hold their beliefs do."

Sunstreaker cocked his beautiful face down to her. "You're a lot different from some of the other humans. More respectful of other points of view. That's what I don't like about a lot of them."

"I don't blame you. We humans have a tendency to be judgmental and closed-minded. Not one of our better traits."

"What makes you different?"

"I was about five years old when my father introduced me to the concept of the scientific method. He's also a doctor. And if I'm ever half the doctor he is, I'll consider it an accomplishment. I was raised to question everything, especially my own certainties. There are very few absolutes in science, he'd say. Our most cherished ideas are always subject to new evidence."

"He sounds like Ratchet."

"They're a lot alike. I think Dad might be a little more grouchy, especially before he's had his coffee, but at least he's never thrown wrenches at anyone...that I know of."

Sunstreaker laughed. "Ratchet's bark is worse than his bite. When my brother and I first came to the Autobots, he was our Guardian for a while. We're still close, believe it or not."

"I believe it. Just because people like Ratchet, and Dad, keep their feelings to themselves, doesn't mean they don't have them," she grinned.

"This is going to seem weird, but I want you to do something for me."

"If I can. What do you want me to do?"

"I'm going to pick you up, and I want you to put your head on my chest."

"Why Sunny, I didn't know you cared!"

He laughed too. "It isn't a kiss, it's more like a hug. But what I want is to concentrate your fields close enough to my spark to get a feel for your vibes."

"Well, I don't see why not. But that sounds very...sixty-ish."

"You don't have any sense at all of your fields—or aura, as Diarwen would put it?"

"I wouldn't say none whatsoever. I can feel the energy I've learned to raise, and I can tell it's present in both of us, and that your field is much stronger than mine. But as for telling you anything else about it? No. I don't have that talent. I wish I did. I know from observing Diarwen that it would be a very nice thing for a doctor to have. Maybe in time, with more practice, I'll develop something like that." She was silent for a moment, letting him examine her. Then she asked, "What does that tell you?"

"That you aren't anything I thought was true of most humans."

"In what way?"

"You have to understand. I've never had much contact before with organics, and never with sentient ones. I've never known any before that were...people. I didn't see how anything that didn't have a spark could be a person. But then I saw your artwork. Drones don't create. That takes something...else, something that's found in our sparks. I don't know where you keep it, but you definitely _have_ it. And, once I get my studio set up, I'd like to paint you. Would you consider it?"

"I haven't modeled since I did it to make a little extra money in college, but I'd be honored. I won't pose nude, though, I have a son now and I'd rather not explain..."

"Well, I won't say I understand, because our two cultures' standards of propriety are very different, but I do understand not wanting to embarrass your sparkling. You will approve everything before I start."

"All right, I'd be happy to pose for you."

"Thank you."

"You know, Sunstreaker, what you went through when you realized we were people too? That's what a lot of humans who haven't met you are going through. There have never been any mechanical people, or even self-willed mechanical animals, on Earth before. Until you got here, we had speculation in science fiction movies like the droids in _Star Wars_, but in real life? The whole idea of non-biological entities seemed like a contradiction in terms. Remember what I said my father told me about our most cherished ideas always being subject to new evidence? Well, here you are! My son is growing up in a universe that's fundamentally different than any other generation of humans has ever realized before. Just by being here, you've widened our horizons tremendously."

"And that's what scares the slag out of that crowd protesting outside the base."

"Yes, I'm afraid it is. Some people don't _want _their horizons widened, because it means they have to think and question. It turned their neat little worlds upside-down, and they don't like that."

Both of them grinned, seeing the humor in this cosmic joke on the closed-minded.

"Craftmaster, did you need something, or were you just exploring the new building?"

"Well, actually, yes, I do need something, if you have a little time. Mr. Davis, the insurance adjuster, is coming to look at my ultralight. The thing is, it's buried under a lot of other wreckage. He needs to photograph something with the VIN number on it. Prowl said you might be available to shift some of that so we can get to it."

"I guess I could do that. It's going to be a while before the paint store has my paint ready, and I should get out in the sun anyway." He raised her to his shoulder, and she found a secure perch and put on her sunglasses as he headed for the wreckage still piled up on the far side of the runway.

Brad Davis, the insurance representative, arrived soon after they got to the junk pile. They had located it a reasonable distance from the runway, by Cybertronian standards—quite a distance for Davis to park his car and walk in the heat while wearing a suit jacket, which he quickly took off and left lying on a rock while they clambered around in the junkyard.

He stopped for a moment, breathing hard, and mopped his forehead. "My God, you wouldn't think it would be this hot in January, even if it is the middle of the Mojave desert!"

Parker gave him a long appraising look. She didn't think it was that hot, but then she was probably in a lot better shape than a desk jockey fifteen years her senior. "Do you need to sit in the shade for a while? We don't want you getting heat exhaustion."

"No, no, I'll be fine. That jacket's a little warmer than I thought it would be. Your ultralight is in that pile...somewhere?"

Sunstreaker started moving wreckage. "It's going to be at the very bottom."

"Never fails," Davis agreed with a grin. "I have a new supervisor, wouldn't let me copy the VIN number off the paperwork I already had. No, I gotta come out here and document it."

Parker grinned back. "You could work for the military."

"That I did, thirty years ago, ma'am."

After an hour's search, they found the plane's engine; Davis climbed over a large door, no longer attached to whatever had once owned it, and leaned over to get a picture of the ultralight's VIN number off that.

When he stood up, he staggered and would have ended up face-first in the sand if Parker hadn't caught him. He was shaking, and looked more like he had a fever than heat exhaustion. "Have you had your flu shot, sir?"

"No, Doctor, I didn't get around to getting one this year."

She took his pulse, and checked his temperature the Mom way, by putting her hand on his forehead. "Unexplained muscle aches?"

"Kind of, I guess."

"I think you're coming down with it. Have you got everything you need here?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"Sunstreaker, I want you to carry Mr. Davis back to his car so he doesn't pass out on our watch."

"Yes, but then he could pass out behind the wheel," Sunstreaker objected. "We should take him inside."

Davis said, "Whoa, I just stood up too fast. My office is on this side of Tranquility. I'll be fine to drive back there."

Parker said, "Tell you what, we'll get you back to your car, and get you some water. Then we'll see if you're in a condition to drive after you rest a little while. You don't want to be driving impaired and endanger everyone else on the road."

"No. You're right. I don't want to do that."

Sideswipe asked, "OK, Dr. Parker, you go on my collar fairing first. Then, do you think you can sit on my servo, Mr. Davis?"

"I think so. I hate to put you out-"

"You're not, you don't weigh anything. But if you think you're going to purge, tell me so I can put you down."

"Purge?"

Parker explained, "Upchuck!"

"Oh! OK. Of course. Damn, this is embarrassing."

Parker gave him a sympathetic grin. "Next year, you might want to rethink skipping that flu shot."

"I guess you're right."

Sunstreaker delivered the human to his car. He got in and started the engine to run the air conditioner while Parker jogged into the Commons to get him a bottle of water. Sunny stayed there to watch over him until Parker returned, then joined a group of bots in the parking lot to soak up some sun.

After a short rest, Davis felt well enough to return to his office. Parker stepped back from his car and gave him a friendly wave, then headed back to her office as his taillights disappeared down the access road.

Sunny checked his battery level, and let the warm sun ease him into powering down extraneous systems in order to stockpile rather than use energon. A high-performance system such as his would never do better than break even, but at least it completely shut down the hunger alerts which annoyed him more with every passing joor.

He watched the humans going about their daily work: some groups training, others on guard duty or patrolling, all of them people he knew by designation: no, name. They were no longer merely assorted humans. He thought about the southwestern art that had so completely captured his imagination. These beings were of the same species.

All the traditional wisdom about sparks being necessary for real sentience? Wrong.

The humans were still greasy—their fingerprints got everywhere, smudged, and captured dust.

But, having experienced their energy fields, he decided they weren't so bad after all.

(End Part Two)


	3. Chapter 3

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Three

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Cold this morning," Junior Epps said, going into a side stretch in the patch of groomed sand that defined the Epps' front yard. A yard which, to his great pleasure, needed no mowing.

"It is that," Evanon replied, holding a hamstring in a too-long stretch for a moment, until it loosened. "Both Ironhide and your father made a point of telling me to stretch more than usual, because of that."

"Well, if we're gettin' it from both directions, I guess we oughta listen." Junior dropped into an Upward/Downward Dog sequence that many dogs and most yoga teachers would have envied.

Evanon smiled at the younger boy. He still wasn't comfortable venturing off base alone, even though it was safe for him to do so now that Morithel had decided to leave him, and Jason, alone until they were of age. He was still a stranger on Earth, and felt very self-conscious about his poor English. However, he was eager to explore with one of his friends along.

And Junior might say, occasionally, "Most of us put it this way," and go on to demonstrate some of the finer points of the English as she is spoke by the natives. He never laughed, unless what Evanon said was meant to be funny.

Although Evanon had caught him with his face scrunched up a time or six. But when Junior explained to him what was off about his usage, he too could usually see what had been funny.

"Did you tell Prowl where we were going? I don't wanna get arrested and dragged back to base." Junior casually sat on the dry sand, spread his legs, grabbed each hiking boot where you might normally find a big toe, and bent forward until his chest touched the sand.

"Yes. He said to call again right after we cross it. He doesn't want to turn the alarm system off at all." Evanon bent forward to put his palms flat on the ground, but had to bend his elbows a bit to get any stretch.

"Where we headed again?"

"I thought we would follow the base roads to the fence, then climb over and go down the east side of the ridge into the state park. There are several trails there that lead to the ranger station."

The two boys popped upright, collecting backpacks and jackets as Monique Epps let the screen door to the Epps' quarters slam behind her. "Here, you two," she said, pressing something warm, wrapped in tinfoil, and delicious-smelling into both their hands. "And Junior, you have an extra each of apples and oranges, to share."

Evanon bowed his head to her. "I thank you, Lady Epps. You are most gracious."

"Junior," she said to her son, "I don't know where you found him, but yes, you can keep him."

Junior grinned at his discomfited friend. "Sorry, Ma, I ain't goin' up against Ironhide for him. No way."

Monique grinned at them both. "Whatever. You're always welcome here, Evanon, I hope you know that."

"Lady," he said, and bowed his head again.

Monique went back into quarters. Bobby Epps Sr. folded the morning paper in half and took one look at her, then said, "What's got you all a-bubble?"

"Oh, I managed to embarrass Evanon."

"Again? That's already an Olympic-level sport with you."

"Well, he keeps callin' me 'Lady.'"

Bobby grinned at her. He had sure married the right one.

Outside, his eldest son and Evanon left the yard, after deciding, in the manner of those possessed of hollow legs, that they could split whatever it was that smelled so good in the foil wrapper into two servings, and eat the first before they left the base. They stopped to watch the Wreckers working at the construction of bot quarters for a while, which was interesting: even using Earth materials, their techniques were based on a different understanding of those materials, and thus were very unusual from an Earthbound perspective.

Then they started the long climb up the mountain, each of the road's many switchbacks offering a new overlook from which to take pictures.

At the peak, Evanon climbed the fence first and threw an old towel he had brought along over the top so that Junior, shorter than Evanon, could more easily avoid the single strand of barbed wire along it. Once the younger boy was safely over, he flipped the towel down with his walking stick and tossed it back to his friend.

Evanon called Prowl. When the bot answered crisply, he said, "This is Evanon. Bobby and I have just crossed the fence."

"Both of you are now on the other side? Stay on the line with me a moment; I need to locate your signal precisely."

"Yes sir," Evanon said. There was something about Prowl which brought that monosyllable to his lips.

He noted that he got a really good cell signal from the ridge top; he'd been on base long enough now that he knew it would fail soon after they began the descent. They wouldn't pick up another tower until they got down by the ranger station and the cabins.

The park had no road up here, only a trail scuffed smooth by the passage of decades of hikers' boots, marked by the occasional cairn bearing a blaze of orange paint.

Once Prowl had finished, they moved off, stopping to spar with their walking sticks: three feet of hardened wood. Epps had made Junior's with help from Ironhide, who had made Evanon's.

Twenty minutes later, the sun still low in the sky, Junior pointed ahead and to the left. "Hey! That a rattler?"

Evanon couldn't see it at first … and then, suddenly, he did. "I believe so. Let us see if we can get a photograph."

"I heard that they can't strike longer than their own body length," Junior said, aiming his cell phone. "I'd sure like to get closer."

"Have you a snake bite kit?" Evanon said, using the zoom feature on his own, slightly more sophisticated phone.

"No."

"Then let me send you a photo. Later we can either confirm or debunk that information—before we test it."

Junior, his father's son, laughed. "Sounds good to me. You ready?"

They left the snake to sunbathe, and continued down the trail.

After a steep descent that made them thankful for good hiking boots and walking sticks, they followed a narrow ledge that made its way along the side of a twisting, narrow canyon, whose edges played host to single-leafed pinyons, which grew tall enough to shade the canyon from either morning or evening sun. At several points along its length the trail ducked under shallow rock overhangs.

It was still cold here—their jackets were welcome.

Someone had dropped a pop can, the red swirls a swear word dropped into the middle of the poem of the wilderness. Junior shook it to make sure nothing had made itself at home inside, then stomped it flat and dropped it into the pack-out bag.

While he was doing that, Evanon wandered into the deep shadows of an overhang. Here and there the chunks of stone which had broken away to form the space lay scattered like a child's forgotten blocks. The recess ran far enough back to be completely beyond the reach of light, the shadows merging into a contiguous darkness.

He froze when he heard a faint moaning noise, then got his flashlight and directed its beam into the darkness where the noise had come from. Junior's footsteps behind him were very welcome.

"Junior, I think something is in this cave! Do large animals commonly live here?"

"Bears, or mountain lions, maybe? We don't want to piss off either one!"

"A mountain lion, possibly—I doubt a bear would live here. There is no food for it."

"Hikers," Junior grinned.

He stopped grinning when they heard the noise again. It was louder—eerie—and most likely neither a bear nor a big cat.

Junior said, "It—it sounds like a zombie."

"I thought your mother said that you could not watch that show anymore."

"Well...everyone knows what zombies sound like. And that sounded like one."

Evanon handed him the flashlight and let the glamour hiding his sword drop. His eyes narrowed as he drew the weapon. "If it is such a thing, it will soon be shorter by a head."

The boys worked their way deeper under the overhang, guided by an occasional groan. Junior called, "Hey! Who's in there? If this is some kind of a prank, it isn't funny!"

There was a louder groan, which turned into a cry of pain. Then the moaner called, "Help!"

Evanon sheathed the sword and both boys scrambled over the rocks. They found a hiker, a youngish man with a balding pate, lying between two large rocks. One of them had trapped the his leg about halfway down the shin. Blood had oozed out from under the boulder, the trickle now nothing but a dry black stain.

"Junior, go back up the trail until you can get a cell signal and then call the base."

"But we need to dig him out."

"No, even if we could do such a thing, he has been here too long, for the blood has dried. A skilled healer must see to such an injury if more than an hour or two has passed, lest in removing the weight, we make things worse."

Junior left his day pack with its bottled water and other supplies. Evanon shouted, "Junior! Do not leave that! Take the water, at least, and the first aid kit!"

"You need it worse than I do!"

"I will not if you turn an ankle on the way there or back! Take what will keep you safe, and leave me the rest!"

"All right, all right! That makes sense!" The younger boy scrambled through his pack, shoving excess first-aid supplies and most of the food into the pack-out bag. It went to Evanon, and Junior threw his own pack on his back and began a swift climb.

Evanon glamoured his sword once more, then clambered down to the hiker, careful that he did not cause something else to shift as he did so.

"Hello, are you able to hear me? My friend has gone to call for help. What is your name? I am Evanon."

The trapped hiker squinted up at him. "Phil. Could I have some water?"

"Not until help comes. It will be very soon, though. Are you hurt anywhere else besides your leg?"

"Banged up. My ribs hurt."

"How did this happen?"

"Dropped my grandfather's watch. I moved a little rock to try to get it, and then they all started moving, and I slid, and that big one just rolled right over on me. I yelled and yelled but nobody heard me."

"We are from the base on the other side of the ridge. My friend has gone to find a cell signal. Help will come quickly once he is able to call someone. How long have you been here?"

"I hiked in last night. Dropped my watch at two-twenty this morning."

Evanon took off his jacket and covered the injured hiker with it. "Phil, are you here by yourself?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have a job?"

Phil coughed, weakly. "Prep cook in the Italian place. I go to school part-time, work there full-time. Take culinary classes in summer."

"What do you study?"

"Workin' toward my degree in business. I want to open a restaurant of my own someday." Phil closed his eyes, and in some indefinable manner went _away_ from Evanon.

Evanon had by this time heard enough bots (and humans too) discuss this experience, keeping watch over wounded personnel, to know that was undesirable. "Stay with me, Phil. Open your eyes. What kind of restaurant will you open?"

Phil did as he was bid, but pain and weakness showed in his pale blue eyes. "Don't quite know yet. That's why I'm going to culinary classes."

"Will you open it in Mission City?"

Phil grunted. "Prolly not. Damn, this hurts. I don't think Mission City's big enough to support a real French place, which is kinda what I'm leanin' toward. Besides, I want to get away from my parents."

"Really?" said Evanon, his curiosity piqued. "Why is that?"

Phil coughed again. "They're both alcoholics. All the money in the house goes to feed that. If I left, they'd drink themselves to death, or…" He coughed again. "I can't tell you how many times I've come home to find one or t'other, sometimes both of 'em, passed out in their own puke. Might've happened while I was stuck here. Hope it didn't. They're my parents, you know?"

"But you are willing to leave them."

"I have to. I never keep any money in my wallet…what did you say your name was?"

"I am Evanon."

"Evanon. I never keep money in my wallet because one or the other of 'em will steal it, and use it to drink. If I leave, they'll have to get help. Or if they won't…." He closed his eyes again.

Evanon spared a thought for the fact that there must be many ways to lack a family, and he was luckier than he had given himself credit for. Nothing tied him to Ironhide and Chromia beyond mutual respect, and the same, he thought, might be said of himself and Morithel. Toward the family into which he had been born, strangers to him through an accident of life, he also felt respect and liking.

Yes, he was lucky indeed, moreso than he had thought.

There was a welcome clatter outside, and Evanon heard Junior call, "Down here, Doc, he's in the back of this cave!"

"Slow down! We don't need another injury!"

Evanon looked up to see Ratchet's remote.

Phil screamed, yanked Evanon further down into the crevice, hauled a gun out of his pants pocket, and opened fire.

The remote and Junior dived for cover in opposite directions. Junior screamed, "What the hell!"

Ratchet bellowed, "Hold your fire, are you glitched? I'm trying to help you, slag it!"

Evanon squirmed out of Phil's grasp, stepped on his wrist, and removed the gun. "Phil, what is wrong with you?"

"Kid, that's one of those damn things that tore up Mission City and Chicago! Bastards killed my little sister! Give me back my gun!"

Ratchet protested, "I'm an Autobot, not a Decepticon! We weren't the ones who attacked you, we fought on your side!"

"You don't look like a fuckin' Autobot! They turn into cars and you can tell by looking at them pretty much what they turn into! And they're a hell of a lot bigger than you are!"

Ratchet said, "I am Autobot Ratchet, a medic. My alt form is a light green Humvee ambulance, but your cave is too small to admit either my alt or root forms. This is my remote. I have no intention of hurting you. What's your name?"

"Phil. You just stay the hell away from me."

Ratchet said calmly, "All right, Phil, I'm going to remain right over here. I won't come any closer. But you have to stop moving around. You're going to cause yourself much greater injury unless you lie still."

Phil let his head flop back onto the sand floor of the cave. "All right."

"Evanon, do you see any fresh bleeding?"

"I think not, Ratchet, but that does not mean there is none, under the rocks."

"Understood. Junior, I need you to do something for me. Go back up to the fence where you can get a signal. I'll be able to use your phone as a relay to talk to Dr. Parker."

"Yes, sir," said Bobby Epps' son, and scrambled back into the daylight.

Phil said, "Can I have a drink of water?"

Ratchet said, "Phil, you must be very uncomfortable, but here is the dilemma. It's very likely that when the rocks are removed, we will have to perform emergency surgery on your leg."

"You're not gonna cut my leg off!"

Ratchet said, very calmly, "That will not happen unless it is so damaged that it cannot heal, but I do not believe that to be the case. How long have you been here?"

"I fell around two-twenty this morning."

Evanon said, "Phil, open your eyes."

"Thank you, Evanon," Ratchet said. "Phil, please keep your eyes open. If you become unconscious, the law says that you have given me consent to treat you."

"No," Phil said weakly.

"I understand that you are reluctant to allow me to treat you, but I cannot allow you to perish if I can help you. My medical programming forbids me that. Do you understand?"

There was a long pause while Phil untangled this statement with a brain that was, with the rest of his body, slowly succumbing to shock: or that was what Ratchet's sensors were telling him. "Yes."

"Good. I cannot let you have water, Phil, because if your leg is so badly damaged that it requires immediate surgery, I will need to anesthetize you. If you have anything in your stomach, you'll vomit. I give you my word that I will perform no irreversible procedures should you lose consciousness."

The deep tremors in Phil's body slackened a bit, and Evanon saw his face relax too.

Ratchet asked, "How long have you been out here?"

"Since six-twenty last night."

Evanon saw Ratchet's optics focus internally, and he hoped that Parker had established contact. "Well, if you haven't bled out in seven hours, your injuries are very likely nothing that would indicate amputation. May I scan the boulder, and that part of your leg which is trapped under it?"

"Yes," Phil said faintly. "Wait—that won't sterilize me, will it?"

"No. That would require radioactivity. I use an entirely different form of energy for scanning. It is much more like the MRI scanners used in your hospitals. This scan uses only the magnetic resonance of the Earth, which is of course harmless to you."

"Go ahead, then." Phil's eyes closed briefly, then reopened.

The news from under the rock was both bad and good. The good was that there was not much blood loss. The bad was that Phil's tibia and fibula had not withstood the pressure of the boulder settling on them, and he had acquired a trimalleolar fracture: his ankle was more or less in pieces, and the lowest couple of inches of the two lower-leg bones with it.

The _really _good news was that this hammer-blow had somehow not smashed things to smithereens. The pieces were large, the fractures reducible. Ratchet said as much to his patient.

Phil said faintly, "Oh. That's good," and closed his eyes again.

Chromia stepped into the cave, and Phil's eyes snapped open.

"Stay there, please, Lady of my House," Evanon said. "Our friend here is unsure that any Cybertronian is not a Decepticon."

"Silly glitch," Chromia said. She put a pile of stabilizers and scary things with needles on the end into a neat pile by the cave entrance. "Ratchet, what was it you needed?"

"I need to move that boulder, and my remote isn't big enough. I thought perhaps we could work together?"

"Surely. What does our friend—what is your name, friend?—think of that?"

"Phil," said the friend. "Any more of you going to show up?"

"I don't think so."

"Who are you?"

"I am Chromia, Evanon's foster-mother, and cohort to Ratchet, here."

"Your foster-mother," Phil said to Evanon. The icicles of "I don't _believe_ this" formed above him and inched a little lower from the ceiling.

"Yes. It is a long story, but may I suggest I tell it to you later?"

"May I urge that as well, Phil?" Ratchet said. "The human healer with whom I am in contact right now says that it is becoming more critical to move you with each passing minute. If you allow us to free you, Chromia or I will carry you to an access point whereupon I will rejoin my ambulance form and take you to the hospital."

"Human healer? What—?"

"Dr. Alicia Parker, who is the Chief Medical Officer for humans at the base over the hill, is in communication with me, piggybacked off the other boy's cell phone. She's a fully qualified M.D."

Phil solved everyone's problems by fainting, and things moved very quickly after that. It took only a single effort for Ratchet's remote and Chromia together to shift the boulder.

There was some blood seepage, though not much. Evanon turned away; he had seen battlefield injuries before, but never liked the sight.

He was tasked with moving the piles of supplies to Phil, and with providing neck stabilization. Working as a team, two bots and one human got the injured hiker on a backboard, and his injuries field-dressed. Then Chromia took him back along the trail, Ratchet and Evanon behind her, Junior Epps following.

They were met at the ranger station by human EMTs, and Phil's adventure was over. By then he was conscious again, to everyone's relief. Had he remained unresponsive for much longer, it would have been a very bad sign.

Evanon said, "A moment, if I may? Phil, is this the watch that you lost?"

The young hiker grinned weakly. "Grandpa's watch! Thanks!"

"The crystal is cracked," Evanon said, giving it into Phil's shaking hand, "but surely it can be repaired."

The EMTs loaded him into the squad and thanked the four of them.

Chromia watched the non-sentient ambulance speed off, and turned to her foster-son. "You two want a ride home?" she asked.

Evanon and Bobby looked at one another, and then Evanon said, "I thank you, Chromia, but we have not yet finished our hike."

She smiled at her foster-son. "Very well. I'll see you when you get home."

And the two boys went off to wind their day to a satisfactory close.

When Ratchet got back to base that afternoon, Jazz stopped him in the commons. "Got a minute, Doc Bot?"

"I guess so, but stop calling me that! What do you need, Jazz?"

"Report on that guy who was lurkin' around the fence at oh-dark-hundred this morning."

"Not much to tell. His name is Phil. I didn't hear his surname. He's in his early twenties, 177 cm, 68 kilos. I'm transmitting an image."

"OK, got it."

"He said he's from Mission City, and he took a lot of wild potshots at me because the 'Cons killed his younger sister and he thought I was one of them."

"What happened?"

"Evanon disarmed him before any harm was done."

"You gotta like a guy who comes out fighting with his leg trapped under a rock," Jazz laughed.

"Riiiiiight. You weren't the one being shot at. Besides, that idiot or one of the boys could have been hit by a ricochet!"

"Ah gotta admit, that's true. That ought to be enough information on him to identify him from public records. Let's see if there's more to that story than he's tellin'. There could be a good reason he was out there in the middle of the night, but there are a lot of not-so-good ones, too."

Ratchet shrugged. He was sure there was more to it than the young man was admitting, but he rather thought anyone truly nefarious would be a better shot.

He went to the washracks to clean out the sand that his remote had picked up, then from there to medbay to check his schedule. He found a line of grumpy soldiers waiting to go into a curtained-off exam bay on the human side, and asked, "What's going on?"

The head nurse, Elise Bingham, grinned. "Random drug testing. Want to scan it for us?"

"No problem, just let me know when you're ready."

"You know, you save us a lot of work doing that for us, and we get back a lot more information than just the drug tests, too. We're catching potential problems before they become career-enders or even endanger people's lives. I know we don't thank you for that enough."

"Maybe there will be enough of us to do these scans for everyone someday."

"Yeah. We have a lot to offer each other, if we can all get our act together," Elise smiled.

Jolt called, "Ratchet, if you could excuse me for a moment, I would appreciate your guidance when you have time."

Nearly in a good mood from Elise's comments, Ratchet joined his apprentice in the bay where he was examining Arcee, and drew the curtain.

(End Part Three)


	4. Chapter 4

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Four

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Mail call!"

That shout brought a crowd of soldiers, as well as a few civilians and Autobots, converging from all over the base. As always, the mail was delivered to the front gate, where it was scanned before being transported into the main hangar by whichever bot had mail duty that day. Today, it was Bumblebee, so the "mail call" announcement went out in Sgt. Carter's voice, from the old Gomer Pyle TV show.

Parker was still laughing about that when her name was called. She put away the files she had been working on, then went to see what it was.

The packet she received contained the bills, professional correspondence, and junk mail that she expected. Her father would phone, and there was no one else to send her personal mail, so she was able to sort through it quickly.

The last letter was from the insurance company—not Mr. Davis' office, but the company headquarters in Las Vegas. She slit the envelope and shook out a single sheet of letterhead.

The claim for her ultralight had been denied, because it had been destroyed in an act of war.

She didn't go quietly. It was not until she had researched the clause that she understood it to also cover acts of terrorism. That left her without a legal leg to stand on.

A quick look at her bank account made clear that she was not going to be able to make payments on another ultralight and keep up her usual deposits to Johnny's college fund. It wasn't often that she let herself be angry about the difference between her paycheck and that of a civilian surgeon with her experience, but that anger clouded her mind now.

If only for a moment. She was needed here. Beside that, the fact that she could not fly for a time was insignificant.

She put the mail in her desk drawer and went back to work.

After her shift, she sat down with the Tiny Trine and Amaranth while Annabelle and Johnny were watching cartoons.

Skysong, always the most perceptive, asked, "What made you sad?"

"Well, I got a little bit of bad news today. I'm not going to be able to get a new ultralight for a while. I won't be able to fly with you for a little while."

They absorbed that in silence. Then, "Why not?" Skimmer asked.

"The insurance company decided not to pay for my other one, and I need that money to buy a new one. You know that the Decepticons smashed it up, and insurance doesn't pay for things that get torn up in a war. I'll have to wait until I can save up enough money on my own to buy another."

Amaranth said, "You can have the money in my piggy bank!"

Parker hugged the girl. "That's really generous, honey, and thank you, but it would take a lot of piggy banks to get a new plane. I'll tell you what we can do. Not every day, but now and then, I'll get a turn with one of the trainers from Nellis. You see, they let me use one because I have to have so many hours in the air to keep my license up. When they let me borrow one of their planes, I'll bring it here and fly with you. But the only thing is, they won't let me give civilians rides in an Air Force plane unless it's an emergency. I'm really sorry about that, Amaranth, and I know it isn't fair."

Amaranth's eyes filled with tears, but she said, "It's all right, Dr. Parker. I can wait until Skysong gets big enough to scan something she can give me rides in."

Skysong said, "Yes! Yes! Oh, won't that be fun! An' Annabelle can come too, an' we can fly _everywhere_! I'll take you to school an' we can go shopping an' to the circus!"

Annabelle nodded enthusiastically, and Parker found herself smiling, which she had not expected to do on a day her insurance company had so thoroughly lousied up. Not _loused_ up; that was reserved for making mistakes. They'd made no error, just converted her day to crap: lousied it up.

The source of her smile was not just the sparklings' (of both species) jubilation. She could see just how thrilled Barricade, the Colonel, and Mrs. Lennox were going to be with that solution.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

That evening when Barricade and Flareup were getting the Trine ready for recharge, the sparklings told their guardians that Dr. Parker couldn't fly with them anymore.

The expression of the sparklings' indignation over this required a great deal of _sturm __und_ quite a lot of _drang_. That someone, anyone, human or Cybertronian, was being kept from flying? That was more than any seeker could tolerate.

"But _why_," Skysong said, her optics filling with coolant, "why are they being so mean to Dr. Parker? They wouldn't be if they knew her, an' they wouldn't be if they knew how much we like to fly with her! An' if they would, that's _mean_!"

"I know, Song," Flareup said, wrapping the sparkling in her arms. "I don't know why, either. But I do know this: humans aren't designed to fly on their own. So they're grounders. They don't feel about flying the way you do. They might like it, and we know that Dr. Parker absolutely loves it. But they aren't seekers, and they don't _need_ to fly. Grounders never get sky-hunger like seekers do."

"What's a grounder?" said Stormy.

"A grounder is a mech or femme whose alt-mode is made to run on the ground. I'm a grounder, and Barricade's a grounder too."

"Is Sideswipe a grounder?" Skimmer said.

"Does he go flying with you?" Barricade asked, busy setting up the cables for their recharge.

"No," Skimmer said, bristling a bit. He was unready to admit that Sideswipe was ever less than total perfection in any way whatsoever.

"Well, I'm sure he would if he could. So what do you think? Does that make him a grounder?"

"That makes him _my __friend_," said the young Winglord of Vos, and that, from his lordship's point of view, was that.

"Okay," Barricade said peaceably, doing the last little bit to keep the sparklings charging overnight. "And Dr. Parker didn't say that she could never fly with you again, I'll bet. She probably said she couldn't until she can buy a new frame."

Stormy said, "Yes, that's what she said."

"She talked about borrowing a plane, too," Skysong added.

"Okay, so it's not that she's never going flying with you again, it's that she can't fly with you right now. She'll be able to, just not every day."

Three voices piped in unison, "But we want her to!"

Barricade finished with the wiring, and squatted to pull Stormy and Song close, placing a servo on Skimmer's shoulder strut. "Yes, I know. I'm sorry. You can fly around base a little bit, but I know it's not the same."

"No. It's not. But I guess we gotta wait." Skimmer huffed in dejection.

The littles calmed enough to perch and settle for the night.

Exiting their berth room, Flareup said to Barricade, "Nice work in there. I could see us explaining that for the next joor and a half."

Barricade grinned, and opened the door to the other half of the quarters. "It still sucks slag. I don't get this insurance stuff. How does it work?"

"A lot of people get together and pay into a fund, so that if something they're insured against happens, their own money, along with the other people's, can be used to take care of it."

"So essentially, you're betting that something awful will happen. Betting against yourself."

"Essentially. Yes."

"Sounds like a pretty good racket. And this is legal?"

"They have a lot of laws and regulations about it, but yes, it's legal."

Barricade snorted, "Sounds like one of Swindle's deals to me."

"Oh, if you're a human," Flareup said, "you can bet that you won't die."

Barricade's mandible dropped. "That's insane. Every living thing dies."

Flareup smiled at him. He was so cute when human illogic was under discussion; she could practically see his processor spinning in his optics. "Yeah, but the humans are betting that they won't die in a particular year. It's called 'life insurance,' and the older the human, the more it costs."

"That's sensible. But look, if you're a very old human, how …"

"Very old humans don't buy life insurance, unless they're very rich."

"But … that's when they need it most."

"Yep," Flareup said, and watched the wheels spin behind Barricade's optics.

She wasn't going to tell him about the humans who murdered other humans—often cohort!—for their life insurance. She'd blown his fuses enough for one night.

She took his servo into her own, and proposed blowing them in another fashion entirely, one that involved no energon use. To her complete lack of surprise, he accepted, with a rider that the fuse-blowing be reciprocal.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next day, Flareup helped Jolt move some supplies into the medbay storeroom and arrange them around the stacks of Pretender protoform containers.

It would be a good thing when they were able to move into the new cliff housing. The hangars were crowded.

"So, did you hear about Dr. Parker's ultralight?"

"No, what happened?"

"The insurance company won't pay for it, so she can't get a new one. Song was heartbroken—we had to explain to all three of them that Dr. Parker won't pine away from sky-hunger like a seeker would."

Jolt put a stack of metal plates on a shelf. "I can imagine how frightening that must have been for them, after what Song went through."

"Yeah, those poor bitlets have had such a hard life."

Jolt cocked his helm to one side, and continued stacking crates. "I know Song had an awful time after her accident, but other than that, was it really so terrible? I mean, we all know how good a parent Barricade has turned out to be."

Jolt was moving more of the materials than Flareup, and she picked up her pace to compensate. "He hasn't had them all that long. According to him, the Command Trine hid them among a lot of other hatchlings on board the _Nemesis__._ Ergh—that one's heavy. The other hatchlings were the Fallen's, and Barricade doesn't know who the other parent or parents were. Several of them were killed out of hand, for who knows what reason. If the Fallen had realized the Trine weren't his, he would have destroyed them without a second thought. And then, after he was killed, Megatron was caring, if you could call it that, for the survivors in Africa. It's hard to see how that could have been good for them."

Jolt shook his helm. "No. It couldn't."

"No. The others all died. When only these three were left, Thundercracker got Megs to assign Barricade to look after them. That wasn't too long before the Battle of Chicago."

"Do they ever talk about that time? Before Barricade took them, I mean?"

"Never. We think they probably deleted a lot of the memories; they must have been too traumatic for sparklings to deal with."

Jolt, himself the product of a happy, if truncated, childhood, looked taken aback. "Oh. I should have realized it would have been something like that."

"I guess we don't want to think about those things until something forces us to."

"Well, things are getting better now that the war is over," he said, patting a stack of crates until all the corners aligned. "I know times are hard right now, but there won't be any more large scale battles, I think. We can build a good life here. It'll be a lot like one of our old neighborhoods back home, only without the caste system and all that. As for the technological things we don't have—the little ones can't miss what they've never had."

"That's true," Flareup smiled.

Once they finished putting the supplies away, Flareup went looking for Arcee to see what her twin was doing. Jolt, meanwhile, ran a few checks on the protoforms, all the full-sized ones, and a random selection of the Pretenders. Everything was fine, so he locked up and went to medbay.

There were no medical emergencies today, only one of Skysong's frequent checkups, and some routine calibration for Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, necessary to keep their high-performance systems at peak fuel efficiency.

And the new human ward clerk, not knowing that having the Big Twins and the Tiny Trine simultaneously present in Ratchet's medbay was a Very Bad Idea (i.e., a slightly-mismatched set of practical jokers and three small bundles of ferocious energy confined in an area which held a high number of breakable objects? Yes, a Very Bad Idea), had scheduled their checkups at the same time. Jolt had the pleasure of dealing with the Big Twins, while Ratchet, as always, was tasked with monitoring Skysong's recovery.

This day her brothers decided to be Tiny Terrors. Seeing Sideswipe, who was giving Jolt a recent medical history with his legs hanging over the edge of a medical berth (kicking his wheels like a sparkling), Skimmer launched himself like a rocket from Barricade's arms, and approached the frontliner at a respectable fraction of the Nevada speed limit. Sideswipe, his reflexes outstanding, snatched Skimmer out of the air just before impact, but the momentum spun him around on the table in Jolt's direction with a screech so loud that Boggs, standing a relief shift for Parker, made it her business to amble over and find out what had made that horrendous level of noise.

Before she got there, though, the spinning Sides tried to fold in his legs, but didn't quite get them doubled under him in time; his wheels struck Jolt in the lower body with a second ear-bending loudness. Jolt doubled over, dropping his medical datapad…which abruptly ceased to function as a result of this abuse.

Skimmer was popped out of Sides' arms by the impact, and chose to dive-bomb Sunstreaker, chanting, "Twin! Twin! Twin! You're my twin! Twin! Twin!"

Meanwhile, Stormy, had established a close orbit around Ratchet's head, yelling, "RatchetRatchetRatchetRatchet!" It wasn't as much fun as Skimmer was having, but he wanted to show willing.

And Ratchet, to Stormy's delight, couldn't lay a servo on him. His close orbit became a series of evasions _avec_ loop-the-loops and tease-the-medics.

Skysong, for her part, put both servos over her mouth and giggled into them, optics darting between her brothers.

Sunny fetched Skimmer out of the air with one hand, tucked him under one arm, winked at Barricade, and said, "I can fix that! Come on, let's go paint you purple. Hello, Dr. Boggs."

"Hello," Boggs said faintly. "I came to see if you needed any help, Ratchet, but I think all you need is a set of straitjackets."

Ratchet actually smiled, and the world-as-we-know-it did not end.

Stormy transferred his attentions to her, dive-bombing. "Hello Dr. BoggsBoggsBoggsBoggs!"

She said calmly, "Not so close, please, Stormy. That's pretty scary."

He lit next to her, panting and proud of himself. "'Kay."

Diminishing shrieks of "No! I don't want you to paint me purple!" marked Sunstreaker's location: presently moving very slowly through the main hall, stopping from time to time to say, "Really? Are you sure?" which set off another volley of "No!" etc.

Sunstreaker listened gravely to Starskimmer's protests, everyone in earshot, human and Cybertronian alike, grinning. Then he said, "Sorry, Skimmer, but I really really want to. I've already got one twin, and he's an awful lot of work."

"No!" etc.

All of this was carried out in a tone carefully calculated to assure Skimmer that it was all just a joke, and he was in no real danger of being repainted. Starscream, whatever his other shortcomings, had had a profoundly well-developed sense of humor, and his offspring had inherited it: Skimmer was enjoying himself to the top of his bent.

Finally, having wrung the maximum amusement from teasing the sparkling, Sunny ambled very slowly toward the exit from the hangar, and said, "You don't? You really don't?"

Bee, involved in poker with Sam and a couple of the NEST guys, played some Spice Girls: "Tell me what you want, what you really really _really_ want!"

Skimmer, who had recently been babysat by Jazz, replied, "I'll tell you what I want, what I really really really want! I wanna go back an' wait with Cade-cade and Stormy!"

Sunstreaker stopped dead. "Really? You wanna go back and sit quietly with them, and just wait?"

"Yes!"

"And I don't have to be your twin any more?"

The ends of Skimmer's mouthplates turned down, and his chin structure began to quiver. "Not if you don't want to," he said.

Sunstreaker revolved the sparking in his grip until he could look at him critically. "Well, if I let you be my twin, you have to be Sides' twin as well, you know, 'cause he and I have always been twins. I can't just leave him untwinned and go off to be somebody else's twin. He wouldn't know how to be Sides-without-Sunny."

"Oh." Skimmer took a moment to consider, and concluded that there was no actual downside to being the twin of both his heroes (Sunny having achieved this status when he plucked the sparkling from the air). "Well, I wouldn't wanna hurt his feelings, so can I ask him if I can be both you's twin?"

"We'll ask him together," Sunstreaker said, readjusting Skimmer into football position, and returned to medbay with the sparkling held face down, giggling and flailing.

Ratchet cocked a browplate at them both. "He isn't purple yet," he said dourly, which sent Skysong into more fits of giggling.

"We negotiated." Sunny set Skimmer on his feet, and the sparkling ran to Sideswipe. But first … he skidded to a stop, and turned to face Jolt. "Jolt, I'm real sorry that you got kicked when I was having fun with Sides. It wasn't his fault, it was mine."

Jolt shot Sideswipe a surprised look, and squatted to bring himself level with the sparkling. "Thank you for apologizing, Skimmer. That means a great deal to me."

Skimmer fidgeted.

Jolt, who had some idea about striking while the iron appeared to be feeling guilty, continued, "Can I ask you a favor, though?"

Skimmer brightened. Surely, if Jolt needed a favor from him, Skimmer, things would be all right? "Yes!"

Jolt reached out and took Skimmer's small servo into his own. "See, when you're in med bay? You need to be alone with your doctor. So if you see Sides or Sunny, or anybody else you really, really, _really_ like"—Skimmer grinned, because it is impossible to string three "reallys" together, emphasize the last one, and fail to quote the Spice Girls—"in here, could you just wave hi instead of flying to them? That does a thing called 'respecting their privacy,' and it's very important."

Skimmer nodded decisively. "Yes! I can do that."

Jolt smiled. "Thank you, Skimmer. I really appreciate that." He stroked the small helm, and stood. "We're done, Sides. Sunny, your turn."

Sides slid down from the berth, and Skimmer reached a servo up to him. "'Sup, sparkling?" said the tall frontliner, taking firm possession of the offered servo.

"I want to be Sunny's twin, and he says I can't unless I be your twin too. So can I?"

Sides put his helm on one side. "I dunno, Skimmer. 'S a big responsibility, being my twin, and I'd have to make sure it's okay with Sunny."

"He said we could ask you together."

"Oh. Okay. But I think we'd better ask Barricade too, don't you?"

"Why? _He_ doesn't have to be _your_ twin."

Barricade winked at Sunny, who was trying to control his ventilations for Jolt. Occasionally, however, a snicker surfaced.

Sides had not shifted his attention from Skimmer. "Yes, but he's your parent. And anything that we do with you, he should say 'yes' to. So let's go ask him."

"'Kay. I hope he won't say no."

"Me too."

Sideswipe made a surprisingly formal request of Barricade to allow Skimmer to become his own and his brother's third twin. But before the ex-Decepticon could reply, Stormy's optics filled and he howled, "But I wanna be Sides' and Sunny's twin too! I wanna!"

And Sky began to cry quietly, because if her brothers were the twins' twins, and she wasn't…would they still be her brothers?

Therefore Barricade said, with equal formality, "I'm sorry, Sides, but if Skimmer is going to be your twin, Sky and Stormy have to be your twins too. If Sunny agrees to that, I have no objections."

"'Course I agree to that, " Sunny said from under Jolt's ministrations. "Who wouldn't? I'll have four great twins."

A certain amount of jumping and shouting followed this pronouncement. Then Jolt clapped Sunny on the shoulder, said, "I'm done. You're good to go."

Ratchet cleared his throat. "Okay. Listen to me, everybody. Right now, everyone who is a twin, or the guardian of a twin, should leave medbay." He accompanied this with a transmission to Barricade, apprising him of Sky's progress.

"That mean you're comin' too?" Sides grinned (because, when the largest of the twins now present had been rescued from being slaves in Kaon, the medic had indeed been their guardian until they reached what might laughably be called their majority).

Ratchet scowled at him, and jerked a thumb toward the door.

Med bay became deafeningly quiet.

Ratchet rolled his optics and exvented loudly. "Well, that was fun. Let's take a look at your belly plates."

Jolt grinned, and began wiping down the berth used by the twins. "Oh, it's not that bad. Didn't even leave a dent, actually."

"Well, you know what to do if you start throwing any error messages."

"Privilege of being a medic," Jolt agreed, and moved to the other berth.

Ratchet followed him and sterilized the berth. "Scrupulously clean" had always been medical procedure for Cybertronians, but until they moved to an organic world, disinfection hadn't been a concern. Now, they were very familiar with the uses of chlorine bleach, because no one wanted an organic infestation of some kind under their plating, and also because they didn't want to vector anything nasty to the human side. Better bleached than sorry.

"Where is Dr. Parker?" Jolt asked.

"She has a meeting this morning at Nellis, and won't be back until after lunch," Ratchet explained.

"Did you hear that the insurance company won't pay for her ultralight? Flareup told me about it just before I checked the protoforms."

"That's...aw, frag."

"It has the little seekers pretty upset. They really enjoyed flying with her."

"Yeah. And we can't afford the energon for Optimus to fly with them, either," Ratchet said.

"Oh, I didn't think about that. Well, they _are_ big enough now to fly around the base on their own, as long as someone on the ground is keeping an eye on them," Jolt said, and moved to restocking.

"Yeah, they can play, but they need an adult to teach them what they need to know up there," Ratchet replied, eyes and mind mostly on the thorough disinfection of two berths, one of which had twin-cooties on it...or maybe now, they both did.

"I don't know what we can do about it right now." Jolt entered what he had done on the computer, and picked up his newly-dead medical datapad.

"Well, I might. Skysong gave her ultralight to Amaranth, and it wasn't damaged that badly in the raid. We'd have had to rebuild the cockpit for a human pilot anyway. I wonder if Jack and I couldn't move that job up on the schedule. Alicia could use that one until she can get another plane of her own. I can't speculate on how soon Amaranth will be able to fly it; I don't know enough about human development, and not being fully human, she's an outlier in any case. But it won't be for a while yet anyway." Ratchet folded his cleaning cloths so that they sailed through the air and into the laundry bin with predictable aerodynamic qualities. Not one fell on the floor.

"There's a lot of Cybertronian tech in that plane," Jolt said doubtfully.

"I'll talk to Wheeljack and Optimus to see what we'll need to do," Ratchet said.

-Sidhe Chronicles

Alicia Parker's new ultralight touched down on the X-plane runway (X for experimental) at the Nevada Test Range, part of Nellis Air Force Base. It taxied to a stop, the canopy popped, and a rangy youngish man in a flight suit, with a parachute strapped to his back, stepped out.

"Holy cow," said the test pilot, taking off his helmet. "We've gotta get about six of these."

"Sorry," Wheeljack said. "It's a one-off."

"How much would you want for one?" the pilot said, coming to stand beside the inventor. They admired the sleek and graceful shape before them, an unlikely mix of Earth and Cybertronian technology. "I could get a bunch of guys together and we'd all pool for it."

"There'd be some red tape to cut, and I don't know right now if that's even possible," Wheeljack said apologetically. "If you've got a business card?"

It proved possible, though it required long, arduous days of tape harvest. The end result, though, was CyberAir, which sold wonderful ultralights for a lot of money, and for every five sold to the wealthy, donated a sixth to a young people's flying club. They were, after all, safer than any human-made vehicle.

The original test pilot was made the company's chief flight officer, and spent his weekends testing new ultralights. This alone raised the happiness quotient on the entire planet by 0.0248 percent.

That afternoon, however, Wheeljack was thinking no further ahead than surprising Parker with her new wings. He transformed and the test pilot called to a couple of his buddies to help put the ultralight on its trailer and secure that to the Autobot engineer's trailer hitch.

Optimus grinned when he saw the tiny plane on the trailer. He quickly pinged Barricade and Sarah Lennox. Both collected their daughters, while Optimus sent a comm to the human CMO. "Optimus, Dr. Parker. Are you busy at the moment? It is not an emergency, but there is something in the parking lot east of Building C which I would like your opinion about."

"Of course, Prime. I'll be there in a few minutes."

Alicia put on her white jacket, as she habitually did when leaving her office, and called to Dr. Boggs. "You're in charge. Optimus wants me to see something outside."

"Yes, ma'am, I have the bay," Boggs said, acknowledging the order. She continued her own work, but that would be secondary to supervising the human side of medbay until Parker returned.

Parker reflected that you could take a soldier out of the military, but you could never take the military out of the soldier.

As soon as she rounded the corner of Building C and saw the little ultralight on Wheeljack's flatbed, her eyes lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. "Oh my God, it isn't—you didn't—"

Wheeljack grinned. "We most certainly did. We had intended to rebuild Skysong's ultralight for Amaranth, but since she will not be flying it for some time, it wasn't an immediate priority. It was simply a matter of moving it up in the list, and having it proven by a test pilot at Nellis. That has now been done, and it has been certified as an X-plane."

Barricade and Sarah arrived, with Skysong, Amaranth and Annabelle skipping around them. All three little ones squealed with excitement when they saw the ultralight and raced up to look at it.

"Can we go flying? Can we? Can we?" Skysong begged.

Parker said, "Not right now, because I'm on duty. As soon as I get off, I'll take it up and familiarize myself with the plane. Skysong, you can fly on my wing and get a little practice doing that. I might want you to give me a visual report on the outside of the plane. Once I'm sure everything's all right, I'll take you guys for a spin."

All three of them jumped up and down, squealing even louder. The fuss attracted Skimmer and Stormy, who swooped down over the roof of Building C to take a look. "Hey, that's Song's old flier! What kind of a rebuild did you do on it? Is it fast? Can it race?"

Wheeljack laughed. "I think I did increase the airspeed a little. There's too much drag for it to be fast enough to keep up with Song's flier's top speed, but it's faster than other aircraft of its class."

"How does that affect its stall speed?" Parker asked.

"It shouldn't. It should handle the same as it did before, except that your top speed will be somewhat faster. There's only so much we could do with an internal combustion engine, though I did increase the efficiency as much as I could, and reduced its emissions. A more powerful engine will give you more maneuverability, of course. Be careful with your climbs and turns until you get a feel for what it can do."

Parker felt her eyes fill. "Wheeljack, I don't know how to thank you for this."

"Dr. Parker, you don't need to. You saved all of us a lot of discomfort with the suggestion to clear our lines with ethanol, so this…call it even. And as I said, it's work that we would have done anyway. Moving it up the schedule wasn't an inconvenience. After everything that you've done for us, we're happy to be able to do this for you."

Skysong jumped with a wing assist to Wheeljack's arms and gave him a human-style kiss on the cheek plate, then she launched herself toward Optimus, gaining enough lift that he was able to reach out and catch her before she started to fall. He cradled the sparkling and raised her up for his own kiss, then held her close for a moment.

Barricade felt a flash of jealousy. Skysong was _his_ little femme. He wasn't anywhere near ready for her to start growing up...growing away...widening her circle until she orbited him at a distance. All too soon she would be a youngling, and she wouldn't need him the way she did now. All too soon after that, she would be grown, and she wouldn't need him at all.

After all, she and her brothers had been sparked for the freedom of the skies. All he could do was prepare them all for the time when he would have to stand on the ground and watch them soar.

(End Part Four)


	5. Chapter 5

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Five

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

A narrow lane meandered from a two lane highway east of Portland through a stand of evergreen trees, until it came to a large, sprawling brick building. First built as an insane asylum at the turn of the twentieth century, the structure had then served as a rehabilitation hospital for wounded soldiers returning from World War I; it had next been an orphanage. In the 1970s, when orphanages gave way to the foster care system, it was sold, extensively refurbished, and turned into a retirement home. Now, forty years later, it had been sold again, this time to Hastings Corp.

Frank Hastings steered his rental car into the parking lot and went inside. The whole place was subdued. Derek Pierpoint's transition into a Cybertronian Pretender frame had been an accident, but Hastings had immediately seen the potential. The first two deliberate transitions, those of DeWayne Sturman and Brian Dolliver, had been completely uneventful. They had started to think of it as routine.

Early this morning, their luck had run out. Rudy Opstein was dead.

Hastings kept an office here, and a quick inquiry at the front desk informed him that his employees were waiting for him there. He got on the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor, and stepped off into the hush of a medical facility's administration corridor. Behind one of the closed office doors, he could hear the low-pitched drone of a copier. Somewhere a phone rang.

He went to his corner office at the far end of the hall and stepped inside. Derek Pierpoint, Calvin Torvald, and Lowell Zain were ranged around the desk. Scott Glasco stood beside Vin O'Leary's wheelchair. Although Glasco was eighty-seven years old, twenty-some years O'Leary's senior, he looked much younger than the Vietnam veteran. O'Leary's ALS was progressing unchecked by any of the various treatments that his doctors had tried so far.

Frank Hastings sat behind his desk, and with the push of a button, closed and locked the door to his office, which also set the soundproofing electronics into motion.

No one spoke for a while. Then Pierpoint said, voice careful, "I'll miss Rudy. Very likeable guy."

Zain said, "Yes. Even Malik liked him."

"Malik?" said Frank Hastings, surprised. Malik didn't like _anybody_.

"Wish it hadn't happened," Pierpoint said thickly, which rather surprised Zain; he thought that with the human body gone, the mind would be…emotionless. So that was a piece of information he couldn't share with any number of endocrinologists, all of whom would give their eyeteeth to have it: emotions were not solely chemically based.

Hastings said gently, "We all do, Derek. But Rudy was willing to take the chance. He didn't want to inhabit an aging body any longer than necessary."

"And we haven't had the chance to look at any data yet, but we can take a look and see if there's a place to pinpoint where it went wrong. Rudy'd like that, you know." Goddamn, now _Zain _was tearing up.

Pierpoint said, "Look…is Rudy going to have a service?"

Hastings said, "I've arranged for his transport to Arlington for burial. We could hold one here. Want a priest? Rabbi, I mean?"

"I don't know what Jews do. Rudy'd have wanted that."

"Cal, will you put one of the BYTs on it?" The BYTs being Bright Young Things, mostly college-age interns. Useful, if limited. They stayed in the Hastings Corp. office in Portland. No one came out here who couldn't be trusted to keep his mouth shut. While the BYTs were chosen for their potential future with the company, they had not yet proven themselves: not to that level. But they could arrange a memorial service from there.

"Yes, sir," the young attorney replied. To Hastings and the other men in the room, Torvald wasn't that far removed from being a BYT himself.

Hastings rose and walked to the window, said to Pierpoint, "I haven't thanked you for what you did this morning."

It had been Pierpoint who carried Rudy's body back to his bed from the science station when the transfer into a Cybertronian protoform failed; now he ducked his head. "It wasn't much. It was like the last thing I could do for Rudy, so I was happy to, you know?"

Now Hastings felt _himself_ tear up. He quashed it, ruthlessly, but put his hand on the younger scientist's arm and said, "Thanks, Derek."

Pierpoint: alone among them all, he would leave no trace of hair or fiber on Rudy's body. When Rudy could not be resuscitated, the local administrator, Stanley Preston, had summoned all of the staff then on duty in the residences (except one) into a small room for a short meeting, and Zain had engaged that one in conversation until Pierpoint emerged from Rudy's room, job done, clipboard under his arm, and approached the other two from a direction that made it seem like he had come from the stairwell. Preston was taking care of the paperwork associated with a death in a retirement facility. They had a few hours to complete a post-mortem before they would have to report the death and summon the mortuary.

Zain said to Pierpoint quietly, "I think I envy you," as they moved away from that last staff member.

Pierpoint said, "Oh? Why?" and, once in the stairwell used only by management staff, re-transformed clipboard into forearm. The transformation seams looked like fine scars.

"Because that was so easy. I'm getting old, Derek. My last birthday I was 45. I can't run as fast as I used to and it's getting hard to keep the weight off." The older man paused. "I couldn't have carried Rudy."

Pierpoint was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I was 36 when…this happened. But I don't think Frank would have a problem with it if you could somehow dispose of the body once it was done."

"Maybe I should just ask him to buy a crematory," Zain said, and then they opened the door to the common area on the first floor to wait for the discovery.

After Rudy's death was discovered, they notified Hastings, who was fortunately at the company's branch office in Portland at the time. Then they had waited in the common area for Hastings to arrive.

Scott Glasco was engaged in a quiet conversation with the man whom they believed might become his 2iC, and Zain abruptly remembered what Frank said about Glasco when they first met: "We've found our command presence." Glasco had that, all right, but Zain wondered sometimes if Glasco had the chops to back it up. They'd find out. For somebody creeping up on 90, he was still a fine-looking man.

The two previous successful transfers, DeWayne Sturman and Brian Dolliver, had their heads together by the large round stone fire pit in the center of the room.

Given that none of their guys were in good shape, it probably made the most sense to get those two into Pretender frames first. Now that they could speak again, they were making up for lost time.

Zain wondered who should be next…their oncologist gave Len Regener, sitting with Sturman and Dolliver, another three months tops, which Regener was eager to shorten. But Pierpoint had proven an exceptional asset to this project: he'd turned a PhD-level brain loose on medical data. He knew exactly what would be found at autopsy to indicate a body overwhelmed by the cancer Regener suffered from, and the moment Regener's body began to produce those chemicals, he'd be transferred. Pierpoint's estimate was two to six weeks.

Regener had argued that someone who died of cancer in a nursing home would never be autopsied, but there was always the chance that some eager-beaver officer of the law might decide something was suspicious. The fewer deaths they had to explain as assisted suicides, the better. Regener had grumbled, but couldn't fault the logic.

Walker Mayhall had lived to old age on a diet of donuts, coffee, nicotine and stress; would transfer sweeten his temper any? Zain doubted it. Between Jim Crow and a career as a cop, Mayhall had just plain seen too much of humanity and didn't like any of it. Malik Tudor was the same way; two sides to the same coin, though Malik was young and belligerent instead of old and grouchy. Either one could stop breathing at any moment.

Most of the rest of them were less urgent cases. Kevin Santini still had enough energy to flirt with the young aide who had come to pet Frankie Reis' cat. Dennis Norlin was seated quietly in a chair, dressed as always in a collared shirt and neat jeans. Augie Delancy, one of Frank's two "pets"—men who would not have qualified if Frank hadn't intervened—was sitting on the floor, skinny legs crossed, hands in his lap. Rare to see him so still.

The other "pet," Michael Sunderland, was listening intently to a conversation between his father, George, and the man Zain already thought of as "Sarge"—Vic Kirsch—on the other side of the room.

"Could I have your attention, please," Lowell Zain said. The room fell silent, and those in wheelchairs turned them to face the chief of security. "We're having a meeting in the Red Room," he said. "Residents only."

The young aide picked up Reis' 32-pound cat and escorted him back to Reis' room, the other aides filing silently out behind her.

Mayhall brusquely declined assistance, and wheeled himself. When all of them were gathered around the table, the door was closed and the blue light that indicated the conversation was masked electronically came on. Hastings said, "As some of you may have heard, this morning we lost Rudy Opstein."

The three soon-to-be leaders were the only ones who made no murmur. A flash of sorrow crossed Malik Tudor's face, which was the first expression anyone had ever seen on it.

Zain waited them out, then said, "I will be in touch with each of you individually. If you've been given a date of transfer, add three days to it. We need to do some digging into what happened. It could be that we scheduled Rudy too late. It could be that something went wrong with the procedure. Until we can get the lab reports, we won't know."

No one had much to say after that. Pierpoint went to his lab, those still in aging bodies returned to their rooms or the commons. The two who had successfully transferred went to the PT range, and began their daily work. Zain, Glasco and O'Leary joined Torvald in Hastings' office to wait for their employer to arrive.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Rita Corrick had been practicing geriatric medicine for twenty years. It was not a specialty where one expected miracles; her patients came to her when they had already turned the last corner. Few of them were interested in chasing the latest thing. What they wanted instead was someone to prescribe their meds.

Usually they came to her carrying a grocery bag full of prescription bottles, and they wanted to know how many of those they really needed to be taking. They wanted assurance that, when the time came, they wouldn't have to fight to get the pain meds they needed—but no earlier than wanted a doctor who understood that a weekend with the grandkids right now was worth more than some theoretical additional week or even month of continued, bedridden, pain-filled existence down the road. They wanted it understood that they wouldn't be stuck in a nursing home and forgotten if a change in their meds could keep them at home. And they wanted someone who would file the paperwork to send them on their way when they moved on.

Corrick had made a career of doing just that, well enough that she had come to Frank Hastings' attention when he initiated the search for a gerontologist for his new nursing home. She'd never stopped looking for a miracle, though.

The pay was great, but that hadn't attracted Corrick. She'd already made plenty of money; she was a fifty-year-old divorcee who had built up a nice enough nest egg to retire comfortably anytime she wanted.

She had signed on the dotted line when Hastings had shown her the miracle she'd been searching for, in the form of her new colleague, Dr. Derek Pierpoint.

Now, the evening after Rudy Opstein's death, the two of them were standing solemnly over his body. Corrick tied the last stitch of the Y-incision—most pathologists were satisfied with staples, but Corrick found the extra work fitting, a last show of respect for her patient. She drew the sheet up over the remains, then she and Pierpoint stepped back, allowing an assistant to clean up.

She and Pierpoint worked well together. She took lead up until they transitioned, then Pierpoint became their primary caregiver. They were going to have to coin a new word for Pierpoint's role, and his relationship to those under his care.

The other candidates already called him "Doc," just as they did her. She wasn't bothered by that, as she had no desire to get the PhD in robotics.

But she was grateful that he was who he was. They both knew their way around a lab, and their own limitations, well enough to assist each other without friction.

"There's no medical reason why Opstein died, Derek. The only thing I can put on the death certificate is that his heart stopped. But that's an effect, not a cause. If I didn't know the circumstances, I'd have said he just wore out. This isn't scientific at all, but, did anything happen in your transition that might shed any light on this?"

"No, not at all," Pierpoint replied, cracking each knuckle in that way he did when he was frustrated.

Corrick stifled a laugh, horribly inappropriate for the circumstances; she had seen Pierpoint trying to crack his knuckles in root mode.

"I didn't even know I _had_ transitioned until Lowell pointed out my, er, human body lying on the floor of the lab. What are we going to tell Hastings? He wants answers. I can't find anything wrong with the protoform, either. It's exactly the same as the others."

"Then that's what we tell him. Derek, medicine isn't like robotics. Sometimes there will not be any simple answers. You're treating a patient, not repairing a mechanism—and that's something you're going to have to be ready to fight for and defend for your—I'm going to say 'patients', at least until we come up with a better word for the guys—now, because a lot of people are going to prefer to classify you as 'things' rather than 'people.' Don't think Hastings is one of them, but hell, there are a lot of folks out there who'd rather classify an age of sixty-five or over as a diagnosis rather than a person."

His eyes—no, his optics—changed, and she knew he'd tucked that away into memory. He nodded, and said to her, "So, okay. Since we don't know what happened, what do we say to Frank?"

"We report what the tests tell us. After you've been doing this for a while, you'll get a gut feeling about what your patient is presenting with, and you'll learn to trust it, but that comes with experience. Sometimes, though, you get a case like this one, where there just aren't any definite answers."

Pierpoint's processor flagged that as important, and his eyes—optics, she needed to remember—unfocussed for a moment as he wrote it to memory.

She'd seen that same look on the face of many an intern as the light bulb came on, and they realized what it meant to be a doctor. Just as with her present patients, some survived that transition, some did not. There were many more washouts from than graduates of medical school.

They parted ways at the locker rooms, then met again to go to Hastings' office.

Zain, Torvald and Glasco were there as well.

Corrick gave the cigars that Torvald and Hastings were smoking the hairy eyeball until both men stubbed them out. Even Hastings actually looked a little sheepish as he put the ashtray on the window sill and opened the window a crack, allowing the offensive odor to escape.

Pierpoint resisted the urge to reset his optics. Even billionaire tycoons apparently were afraid of doctors. That was something else to file away as important.

Hastings asked, "What happened?"

Corrick replied, "The only thing that I can definitively tell you from monitoring the procedure is that, at the moment we would have expected spark activity to begin, it did not. We don't have enough knowledge at this point even to begin to speculate as to why that occurred."

"You're telling us my man died for no reason," Glasco snapped, his hawk-like gaze fixed on her.

Pierpoint almost reset again when Corrick replied, "No, I am not. There is always a reason. I'm telling you that our science is not advanced enough to tell you what that reason is. And I can't speculate about how often this will happen. We've had one failure out of four attempts, but we do not have enough data to determine if that's an accurate success rate. This is why we're only allowing terminal patients to make the attempt."

She paused, to give Glasco time to say something else, and Pierpoint learned more: doctors were not afraid when they were telling an unpalatable truth. But Glasco simply, unwillingly, nodded, and Corrick nodded back to him, then continued: "At this point, there is no ethical alternative. Realistically, given the course of every other medical advance in history, we have to expect more unexplained failures. They will help us find the explanations, but after the fact, not before it."

Hastings spoke. "Dr. Pierpoint, could a defect in the protoform explain it?"

"I found no such defect. I suspected a flaw in the spark chamber, but if there is one, I'm not seeing evidence of it. I have to concur with Dr. Corrick. At the point we would have expected Opstein's spark to ignite, it did not. We have no data whatsoever how or why that takes place. I have no memory of it. Neither does Sturman. Dolliver reports having seen a bright white light, but remembers nothing else about it, and we have no way to determine precisely when that event occurred during the process."

Corrick said, "Essentially, Mr. Hastings, you're asking us to tell you why Rudy Opstein's soul did not become a spark, and there's no way medicine can tell you that. You might get more information by climbing a mountain in Tibet and asking a guru about reincarnation, because I can't think of a better word for what's happening here."

Zain said, "Are you saying he went to heaven?"

"Well, I sure don't think he went to the other place!" Pierpoint snapped back.

"Doc, that is not what I meant. He was a great guy, and if anyone got in, he did. I'm just asking, did he move on instead of staying here?"

"I'm sorry, Lowell. I took that wrong." Pierpoint took a deep breath. "I don't know. And Rita doesn't either. She tends to bodies. So will I."

Torvald said, "We're all under stress. But we've all got the same goal, to find out what happened here."

Hastings said, "We're not going to know, are we? We're never going to know."

Corrick realized it wasn't only Rudy Opstein's death that drove him to ask that question, and answered more gently than she would have otherwise, "No, sir. It's highly unlikely that we ever will know the reason why. We just have to decide where we go from here."

Glasco said, "I'll tell you where we go. You schedule me for transition bright and early tomorrow morning. If my men are gonna do this, I do it first."

The old man and the tycoon locked gazes for a long moment. Then Hastings said, "OK, Glasco. You're on deck. Hit it out of the damn ballpark."

"Yes, sir. If your car's parked outside center field, you'd better move it or kiss your windshield goodbye."

"OK. Dr. Corrick, I want you to take Glasco down to the lab and run every test you can think of. Dr. Pierpoint, go over the next protoform, make absolutely sure it's in top condition. I don't want to give Murphy any chances."

The three of them left to follow those orders.

Hastings turned to the credenza. "Bourbon?"

Both men agreed that was fine, and Hastings poured a generous splash into three glasses. He said, "Here's to Rudy Opstein. We lost a good guy today."

"Hear, hear."

"To Rudy."

Hastings said, "Glasco's right. The best way to honor Opstein's memory is to finish what he started. We can't count on the Autobots always being there when there's a Con incursion. For what it's worth, I have come to believe that they would do their best to defend us. I believe they are our allies. But we're Americans. We don't depend on our allies to rescue us from an attack on our own soil. And, we can't depend on politicians to always act in the best interests of the country—they've proven that twice, when they were going to turn the Witwicky kid over to the Fallen, and when they deported the Transformers to appease Megatron. There have to be Americans ready and able to fight back if anything like that happens again."

They refilled their glasses, and Zain swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Like any war, if we have to go into action there will be casualties. But soldiers know that, sir. It's part of the job description.—Sir, I'd like to transition."

"There's nothing wrong with you. It'd be illegal."

"Only if I got caught. I know how to make a body disappear."

"Corrick and Pierpoint would throw a fit about letting a healthy person do this."

"I wasn't planning on asking them, sir. Present them with a done deal, they'll get over it."

Torvald said, "You won't be able to carry on business as usual. There are too many things that could get you identified as a Pretender."

"I don't tell you how to sue somebody, son. Don't tell me how to do my job."

Torvald accepted the rebuke without comment. "I just want to make sure you thought this all the way through."

"Hey, Lowell, Cal's right. This is a big step for someone with more than a few months to live," Hastings said.

Zain looked down at his shoes, which apparently did not change his mind. He raised his eyes to Hastings', said, "I'm not real good at commanding from the green zone. I need to be able to keep up with my boys to lead them."

"Take a week and think it through. If you still feel this way then, you come to me with a plan that won't bring this whole operation down around all our ears. I'll make a final decision then."

"Yes, sir."

It was going to be a busy week for Lowell Zain.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mission City Base)

Jazz couldn't help a grin at the image on the screen in front of him. Rumble sat on a rusty slab of metal hanging from a stone wall by two chains, with his wrists shackled so that his pile drivers rested end-to-end. He directed a sour glare at the photographer.

Beside him, Buzzsaw lay on his side, legs shackled and wings pinned with half a dozen big c-clamps. The small flyer's optics were shuttered, and he was the picture of misery.

Jazz winced in spite of himself; that had to be slaggin' uncomfortable. On the other hand, he didn't blame the symbiont's captors for making sure the little menace didn't take a swipe at somebody with those razor-sharp wing feathers.

He felt sorry for the little glitches, he really did. But they had been professional rivals for so long that he couldn't suppress a bit of amusement at their expense. They'd be laughing their skinny little afts off if he were in their situation.

Their location was tropical. Through the narrow barred window over the bunk he could see blue sky and a tall unbranched tree bole: he was guessing that was a palm, as other palms, identifiable by their fronds, were visible beyond it. Also, a jungle vine had grown in through the window and climbed one of the bars, filling one side of the window with lush emerald foliage. And the climate was humid, if the green fuzz making itself at home on the rough stone blocks of the cell wall was any indication.

The blocks themselves... rust streaks trailed from the bolts holding the bunk to the wall, and dirt had accumulated in every crevice.

The blocks had weathered and pitted over time. The place had been here for at least a vorn, probably longer. After all, it had been four vorn since the Spanish invaded the Americas.

Human technology had grown exponentially in that time. When this building had been constructed, most if not all of the power used had been animated: muscle-power, amplified only by mechanical advantage.

For that reason, Jazz doubted that those heavy stone construction blocks had been transported very far.

Jazz sent Wheeljack a copy of the image, querying the identity of the palm tree, the vine in the window, and the type of stone.

Prowl came in and placed a stack of three data pads on the corner of his desk, squared with the edges and just far enough back that they wouldn't be knocked off the edge. "How is it going?"

"Might have a couple leads from the building materials and the organic stuff in the picture, I'm waitin' to hear back from Que on that. What have you got today?"

Prowl asked, "Were you aware that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker have adopted the Tiny Trine as honorary twins?"

Jazz laughed. "No, I wasn't."

"This will not end well. They will learn all that the Twins have to teach them, and then adapt it with typical Seeker curiosity and ingenuity."

"They're good kids, Prowl."

Prowl scowled. It didn't, in Jazz' view, make him any less handsome, but it marked out clearly how concerned he was. "For now."

"Maybe you ought to spend some more time with them. Y'know, try to influence them away from the dark side," Jazz grinned.

Prowl had never thought of that, but now that Jazz had brought it up, the idea had merit.

Praxians had a great deal in common with seekers, and not just the sensor-rich winglets or doorwings incorporated in most of their root modes. Never fliers themselves, the bots who had eventually become Praxians had originally been designed as pilots of the Quintessons' non-sentient spaceships. They had flight protocols in their base programming, which usually expressed as a talent for martial arts or gymnastics. They had the processing capability necessary for advanced astrogation—as well as any other number-crunching. That had led many of them into various clerical occupations and most had been of that caste.

Prowl's own lineage, however, had been Enforcers as far back as anyone could remember. He supposed that he did have a lot that he could teach the Trine—and perhaps influence them toward a law-abiding lifestyle while he was at it. "I will consider it, Jazz."

Jazz, turning back to his work, smirked. It wasn't that Prowl lacked a sense of humor, but war had stunted the Praxian in many ways, of which that was one. He knew in his struts that exposure to the Trine would provide a hothouse for that malnourished sense of humor: he bet it would grow, and grow lush.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Wheeljack finished compiling the list of things that he would have to discuss with Prime, then turned to the interesting little problem that Jazz had set him.

Identifying the plants should be easy enough. He isolated images of foliage, stems, and both a flower and a fruit from the window vine, and set an image comparison program to work. If he could not positively identify them himself, he could at least narrow the field and then request assistance from an expert.

The stone was going to be more of a problem, since its identification usually required a sample to test. He could determine color and consistency from the image, however, which would rule out a lot of possibilities. He started another image search subroutine.

While those ran, he went to the small form under a dust cover in the back of his lab that would be Skysong's youngling frame.

He had been at a loss for the optics. Seekers had highly specialized optics, and he lacked the capability to produce lenses to those specifications here. Oh, he could create the internal working parts, but the lenses had to be optically perfect, much more so than the average grounder required, or had been willing to pay for, back on Cybertron. It was highly specialized work, and he hadn't trained for it.

He could not create such lenses, but perhaps there were laboratories on Earth which could? After a long search, he had discovered such an optical shop, this one located in Frankfurt, Germany.

When he had first described what he needed to Rickart Engelhart, the engineer had asked him why he needed such an unusual lens. Wheeljack relayed Skysong's story in a just-the-facts manner, annoyed that the coolant seemed to be pooling in his optics as he did so.

Rickart had stared off into space for a long moment after Wheeljack fell silent, blue eyes fixed on something that now existed only in his imagination but which soon would be made manifest. Then something else caused pain to flash across his face. He cleared his throat to say, "In six weeks, Herr Wheeljack, call me again and I will tell you."

This morning, however, precisely five weeks and six days after they had spoken, a box arrived at the gate with Wheeljack's name on it. He opened it to find two optical lenses, perfect in every way, created exactly to Wheeljack's specifications.

Wheeljack put a call through to Rickart's office. "Wheeljack, Herr Engelhart. I wanted to let you know that the shipment arrived safely this morning."

"_Sehr __gut__._ This is what you needed?"

"Yes, thank you. They're perfect. I'm about to begin assembling the optical units now. But there was no payment information included, and I was wondering...?"

"Consider these samples, proof of concept, Herr Wheeljack. If they prove satisfactory and you wish to order more, we will discuss payment then."

"Thank you. Thank you, Herr Engelhart."

"_Bitte sehr._"

Later, when Wheeljack reviewed his recording of the conversation, he noticed something he had missed before. On the wall behind Herr Englehart was a bookshelf, and on this bookshelf was a framed photograph of Englehart with a small, blue-eyed boy in leg braces—from the distinct family resemblance, clearly his son or more likely his grandson—grinning ear to ear as he played with a toy airplane.

Wheeljack had spent a lot of time working with Chip on his various extracurricular adaptive-technology projects, and he recognized that bracing: it was typically used for patients recovering from multiple fractures. That child had probably been in an accident as terrible as Skysong's.

Love, Wheeljack realized, was common to their differing species. Set beside it, money counted for nothing with either.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Later that evening as the bots came in from their daily rest in the sun, Wheeljack called to Jazz and Prowl. The two joined him in his office, and he said, "I have that information that you wanted. The plants are a coconut palm tree, which grows in sandy soil. The vine is passionfruit, a variety native to the Yucatan peninsula of Mexico. And the stone appears to be limestone, which is consistent with building materials found in that area. Another thing I noticed is that the stonework appears to be Spanish colonial, not Mayan, in construction."

Jazz said, "Thanks, Que. That's a big help. Narrows it down enough for us to start looking."

"Good. I can send it out to some of Director Mearing's experts if you need a more specific identification."

"Let's go on what we got for now. Ah don't want to take the chance Sounders might intercept it if we transmit the information."

"Yes, of course."

"That all you got so far? Good work, Que. Didn't expect it so fast."

"Yes, that's all I have."

Jazz and Prowl went to their quarters. It was starting to look more like a home than only "somewhere Jazz had been camping"; but then, it had been exactly that, absent Prowl.

Over Jazz' desk was a sound system on a shelf, along with show posters of Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald and Muddy Waters. Chaos reigned below, but Jazz could put servo on anything needed in an instant.

Prowl's workspace was always neat as a pin; everything had a place and everything was in that place unless in use. The only decoration was a small holoframe, which rotated through several of his favorite images of their long life together. Many of those images were of just the two of them; others showed them with friends since departed.

Beyond those things, they had a sofa, a table, a wall video screen and two chairs. An open-weave screen which Sunstreaker had made for them, reflecting musical motifs, divided their berth area from the rest of the room, but still permitted airflow.

Prowl set out their energon rations while Jazz turned on some soft music, and they sat down to go over a few data pads together.

Prowl asked, "Do you intend to go to Mexico yourself?"

"Ah am tempted, but Ah think Ah better stay closer to home. If Sounders finds out Ah'm gone, he might decide it'd be a good time to make a try for the base computers."

Prowl nodded. His tactical computer made him a formidable opponent in a cyberwar, but his glitch was known to the cons and left him vulnerable. His presence wouldn't make Soundwave hesitate in the same way that Jazz' did. No hacker, not even Soundwave, wanted to go up against the saboteur in his home node. "Bumblebee, then?"

"Yeah, he's our best scout, and he won't need a lot of supplemental energon operating that near the equator. Ah'm gonna ask Will to assign Figueroa to the mission, since he speaks the language. Director Mearing might want to assign a local control. I'll send a courier in th' morning to see what she thinks."

"I would still like to know what the unknown factor is that is keeping those two in that cell."

Jazz projected the image between them. "Dunno, but Rumble's givin' someone the glare o' death," he said.

Prowl's answer was delayed by a few astroklicks. "It is most likely that they are under constant armed guard, so that they can attempt nothing without being shot."

"Won't make it easy for Bee's team to get 'em out of there."

"Once he locates them, if necessary, he can call in reinforcements. Locating them is the sticking point. The Yucatan is a large area, and early Spanish structures are numerous in the coastal areas."

"Yeah," Jazz replied. "The humans call it a needle in a haystack. And we're not even sure where the haystack is."

"I will have a look at the image file myself. Perhaps some detail will occur to me and help us narrow things down a little more."

Jazz smiled. "Tomorrow."

Prowl nodded. "Yes. Tomorrow is soon enough."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Charlotte Mearing folded back the flap of her purse and made sure it was unzipped before putting it in the top drawer of her nightstand—the reinforced drawer with the ingenious magnetic lock keyed to a ring that she wore, which was a gift from Wheeljack. Her 9mm Sig Sauer was within easy reach, but no one else could open that drawer without a great deal of effort.

Her weapon secured, she slipped off her heels and stepped into a pair of soft slippers. True equality between the sexes would not come to pass before high heels went the way of the dodo.

Simmons had a similar drawer on his side of the bed, but his first nod to comfort was to toss his suit coat and tie over a chair, leaving his shoulder holster still in place. His second was to adjust his leg brace and give a few spots that the straps irritated a brisk rub with the heel of his hand to get the blood flowing.

They had not been living together very long. He still acted like he wasn't sure he had a right to make himself at home. Mearing suspected the day would come when she would complain about shoes and socks under the coffee table or wet towels strewn around the bathroom, but that day had not yet come.

For that matter, the day would come when she would be content to open a few cans and call it dinner, but tonight she put some fettuccine on to boil while she whisked together a simple, elegant Alfredo sauce with mushrooms and carrots.

Simmons kissed the back of her neck. "Anything I could do to help?"

"A salad, I think?"

She had taken lessons on keeping a kosher kitchen, which meant no more chicken Alfredo. She had yet to understand why chicken was lumped in with meat from mammals, neither to be consumed at the same meal with milk or milk products, but so it was.

It was not necessary for a Jew to believe anything, only to obey the Law. While she doubted that she would convert, she would respect the traditions that Seymour and his mother kept.

And she would not mention that she knew he had returned to those traditions during the two years that he had shared accommodations with his mother, the two years just before he and Charlotte had taken this apartment together.

Simmons asked, "My homemade alioli?"

"That sounds good."

He set out the dressing and the salad ingredients, collected a knife and a chopping board, then opened a bottle of wine to let it breathe while he prepared the salad.

The little ritual of cooking together distanced them from the stresses of the day, and gave them the chance to discuss and set aside the remaining office talk that they still needed to deal with, so that they could be in "home mode" when they sat down to enjoy their meal.

Simmons said, "I wish you wouldn't worry, Charlotte. I've been in the field as long as you have. I do know what I'm doing."

"I can't help worrying," she said, stirring the sauteing veggies with a little more vigor than necessary. "I think they let you go back on duty too soon, and you'll be in the middle of the jungle."

"My leg has healed as much as it ever will, on its own. This brace is the way it is for now," he said reasonably.

"You're going as local control, not as a field agent," she reminded him.

Seymour Simmons, who could see she'd just put on the Hat of Being Agency Head as well as if it existed, said, "I know that, Director. I'll leave the James Bond antics to Fig. And you know Bee will be looking out for both of us."

"You tazed him and sprayed him with liquid nitrogen," Mearing pointed out.

"We got past that on the way home from Egypt."

She sighed. "I'll take your word for it, and I know Bee's a reasonable person. Still ... Seymour, be careful. I don't want to have to bail you out of a Mexican jail." Or, she was careful to leave unsaid, identify your body in a Mexican morgue.

He tapped her on the nose with a celery stalk. "I'll be careful. Now stop worrying." He nodded toward the stove, where the sauce was getting on with a certain amount of enthusiastic bubbling. "Don't let Alfredo burn."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus walked a wide expanse of leveled stone beside Roadbuster. The Wrecker said, "We did all we can until Excellion gets here. Once he's fused his landing pad and got himself settled, we'll be bringin' his utility lines off the new apartments. I've never worked with a cityformer before, so I'll have to ask him what he wants to do about hooking that up."

"I don't have that information myself," Optimus said.

"No. You didn't get much of a chance to talk to cityformers before it all went sideways, I imagine."

"No. I've always regretted that."

Roadbuster remained silent for a time. Then he said, tentatively, "Also, Sunny brought up the flash flood. I don't think it'd cause Excellion any trouble to speak of, but he might want a levee to keep the water away from him. If so, other'n the utilities, that'll be the last thing we do for him."

Optimus nodded. "My only remaining concern is that the cliff will keep him in the shade for much of the morning."

"Oh, y'mean energon conversion? He'll run up a tower for that. He's still on schedule to land?"

"Yes, as of the last time we spoke."

"In that case, Prime, we're done 'til he gets here."

"I am sure he will find your preparations quite comfortable," Optimus said, surveying them. "Good work."

"Thanks. Be nice if the first thing he sees when he comes in wasn't that mob outside the gates. You'd think they'd get tired of standing around in the desert yellin' to hear their helms rattle."

"They are less interested in the sound of their own voices than they are in the attention that they are receiving from the news media. I have made Excellion aware of their presence. Aside from the Aerialbots, he will have a large escort from Nellis Air Force Base. If it is a show that they desire, that is what they will receive. I believe that they will find it very impressive."

Roadbuster grinned. "Yeah, I think they just might."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ratchet was staring at a laundry cart when the inspiration hit, and far from dismissing it as a lunatic idea, he transscanned the necessities there and then.

He had been in the middle of formulating a planning how to get into Building A, where the Sidhe's apartment was located. There were security cameras at all entrances to the three hangars, as well as in several strategic locations around the base, including streetlight poles in the base housing area, the playground, outside the old magazine which the former cons had renovated for their quarters, and the proving grounds. Since the raid, Prowl had made it virtually impossible to be anywhere on base without ending up on a monitor.

He had found the perfect solution to the Diarwen problem during one of his web research forays while connected to the hospital computer system at Nellis. The most recent round of drug tests had given him the opportunity to acquire the materials he needed, and the procedure seemed very simple. Best of all, if she really was as harmless as everyone insisted, the countermeasure would do nothing, and should be chalked up to someone's idea of a prank.

He knew better, though, than to believe that that small female was in any way harmless.

The problem lay in getting access to carry out his plan.

One of the duties that everyone on base despised was laundry detail. While the civilians were responsible for their own washing, and the soldiers for their civilian clothing, uniforms, linens, and everything that was US government property was stuffed into laundry bags and thrown into carts to be washed in large, efficient loads, then carted out to the wash lines and hung to dry overnight; using driers made the hangar quarters hell-hot. On a regular schedule, these laundry carts were collected by some unlucky grunt.

Ratchet shut his office door and deployed his remote. Never having been exposed to the same sort of strange energy that gave Roller, Prime's remote, a semi-independent life, this was a simple drone with no sentience of its own. It was no more an autonomous being than a data pad or one of the humans' machines, unless the medic inhabited it.

The remote was a literal part of Ratchet, allowing him to act at a distance or in areas too confined for him, as he had when the young hiker had been trapped in the cave.

But it was well-known by the other bots, and now by the humans as well. He could not use it in its familiar root mode without being noticed.

Unlike most remotes, though, it had a fully operational t-cog. Most remotes needed only their active and inactive forms, and the transformation sequence was hardwired. A medical remote, however, had to be reconfigurable as necessary to suit the situation. Sometimes these remotes needed to produce specialized tools; at other times they were required to transport injured bots much larger than themselves. Therefore, a medic could upload a different transscan to his remote and reconfigure it at will.

This ability was not generally known outside the medical profession. Few other bots had enough need for a reconfigurable remote to devote the resources to maintaining one.

Ratchet uploaded the file, then sent the remote the command to transform. Instantly there was a disturbance of air, and then, where the spindly-limbed root-mode remote had been, a laundry cart stood on its four little casters.

He moved the cart around the office's limited floor space as an experiment; it worked, complete with authentic one-wheel wobble. So far so good.

That evening at mess time, when there was a lot of activity around the cafeteria and no one was in the laundry, he casually paused by the laundry door, deployed his remote inside, rearranged a few armor plates to conceal the missing mass, and subspaced one of the laundry carts. As he got in line to collect his energon ration, he inhabited the remote briefly to roll it into line with the other carts.

All he had left to do was wait until someone pushed that cart into Hangar A and left it in the utility room, where residents dropped off their laundry. He occasionally monitored the remote to keep track of its location, as it took a tour of other locations before arriving at its desired destination. Beyond that, Ratchet left it alone: one of the other bots might notice its energy field when it was in an active state.

Two evenings later, that particular cart was taken out the back door and over to the Building A utility room. The soldier on duty hauled out the full cart and put Ratchet's remote inside, then went on about his duty.

Ratchet waited until things quieted down for the evening, then inhabited the remote.

He was just about to transform it to root mode and see if the hallway was clear, when a loud thump and an oath from outside informed him that it wasn't.

The door swung open and Bart Bolling came in: easily the biggest human on the base, he would have towered over Ratchet's remote even in its root mode. In this alt mode, the medic barely came to the burly man's belt. Ratchet was not used to being loomed over by humans, and found it disconcerting.

Bolling was not in a good mood. He propelled the overstuffed sack of laundry he was carrying into Ratchet's bin, and it hit with enough force to bounce the remote off the wall. Ouch.

There were dirty socks and sweated-in uniforms in it. Ratchet shut down his olfactory receptors, but there was nothing more he could do until Bolling left.

Bolling, alas for Ratchet, did not leave immediately. He collected a stack of towels and linens, fiddling with the piles and counting his take twice, then cursed again when he found the box of garbage bags empty. He stomped the empty box flat, threw it in the recycling bin, and opened another one. Trash bags and clean laundry in hand, he finally left the utility room, letting the door slam behind him.

Ratchet waited a few minutes to be sure Bolling hadn't forgotten anything, then transformed and and stepped hastily away from the laundry bag, wishing he had time to step through a washrack.

He peered through a barely cracked door to make sure the hallway was empty, then unsubspaced the supplies that he had brought with him and got to work.

(End Part Five)


	6. Chapter 6

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Six

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen felt the hair at the back of her neck prickle as she approached her door, ready to report for her day's shift. She scowled—it felt like some sort of ward, but who here besides herself would be setting wards?

An IED filled with steel ball bearings had taught her to be cautious: greatly, deeply cautious. She opened the door with extreme care after determining that the ward was attached to the outside of the door frame.

The ward was inexpertly done, but very powerful, since whatever rank amateur had cast it had put all the love in his or her spirit behind it. A foul odor informed her of the nature of the ward—stale urine, a substance once used in warding against the Sidhe. Its other use was somewhat unflattering: to repel insect pests.

Her brows contracted as she gathered more information. The caster truly believed that she was a threat to someone they loved.

The Fae knew better than to try to cross any ward without unraveling it first. Here, that would be easier said than done, as she did not know the caster's full intent. She drew her dagger and cast a circle to protect herself in case her explorations triggered the ward.

She determined that she could safely break it, but there would be an obvious energy field disruption, rather like a loud bang or a bright flash to those capable of sensing such things.

The Cybertronians could. She got out her phone and dialed Optimus' code.

He answered immediately. "Good morning, Diarwen."

"Good morning, _acushla__._ I just wanted to let you know—someone has decided to prank me and warded the door to my quarters! I can get out, but there is going to be quite the field disruption when I do. I'd not want to frighten the sparklings."

He laughed. "I'll warn Barricade to expect it. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Of course. Whoever did this was no witch. They certainly do have some potential, though!"

In his tone of voice, she could read his fields changing from amused to concerned. "You are saying that someone cast a spell on your door."

"Yes, and probably the first successful one of his―or her―life, from the looks of things."

"Let me come out there and take a look at it before you do anything."

And now she read true curiosity. She was extraordinarily fortunate to have such a student, and she thanked Brigit once again for Optimus' presence in her life."All right, if you wish—it probably would be a good thing for you to practice on, now that you mention it."

After a moment, she heard him coming down the middle of the Quonset hut. This smallest one had been relegated to human use, since it was not tall enough for the larger bots to stand upright even in the central hallway. Optimus could approach her home only in his alt.

He stopped on the other side of her door and asked, "Did someone urinate here?"

"Not exactly. The urine is stale, and was painted on my door frame in the course of casting the ward."

"They _what__?"_

Diarwen knew him very well, and heard his laughter at her expense in his voice. It made her smile. "Yes, it stinks. Yes, it is vile. But it _works__. _Now what else can you tell me about it, besides that."

"There is a definite energy field filling your door frame, but no mechanism is producing it. It resembles a shock field, such as those used to secure a cell in a brig."

"I thought it might have a bite if I were to set it off."

"That's a mean-spirited prank," he observed. Sideswipe and especially Sunstreaker wouldn't be above rigging something to give some unfortunate bot a nasty shock, but they'd never leave a booby-trap like that lying around where an organic might set it off, much less target one intentionally. The Little Twins were juvenile enough to enjoy a prank involving toilet humor, but they also would never deliberately harm an organic.

And both sets of twins, he knew, liked Diarwen. So no, the perpetrator was not one of the Twins.

"What can you read from its aura?" Diarwen asked.

"Well, it's in the frequency range that you describe as gold, but I don't think any of the indications that you associate with that frequency such as faith or wisdom would apply to a force field. Protection?"

She smiled. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling you. Protection."

"Just so. Is that the only color you see, though?"

"No. There are also areas of red and rosy pink. Those two together indicate love, don't they?"

"Yes, but probably not a romantic love. Someone drew on an unselfish, sacrificial love to power this ward."

Optimus studied it. The conclusion he drew made no sense. "Someone is trying to protect you? By locking you in your quarters?"

"No. Ach, no, I wish it were so simple. Stale urine is used in spells to ward _against_ my kind."

She heard the scowl in his voice. "Then this is no prank, Diarwen. Someone truly believes that you are a threat."

The Fae sighed. "Most likely. In the middle ages, when the church made war on my people, they spread all sorts of rumors about us. We were accused of everything from souring milk to causing the Black Plague. And, as you know, some of that was true of the Sidhe of the Unseelie Court. The humans, generally being unable to tell the difference between the Courts, came up with many ways to protect against us. Stale urine is only one of them, if the most insulting and distasteful."

"And someone _here _did this. If you'd got up in the night without being completely awake, you might have been seriously hurt if you'd walked into it."

"I might have."

"Can you determine who did it?"

She shrugged. "I've never seen this magical signature before. I'll know it if I see it again."

His aura surged a clear, aggressive red. "I had better not see it again. If I catch whoever did this—!"

Diarwen replied quietly, "You will recall two things, I hope. First, I can take care of myself. Second, there is no malice in this. 'Tis meant to protect whoever the caster thinks I might harm. I should sooner correct that misunderstanding than start a witch war over it."

He calmed himself. "You can break this safely?"

"Oh, aye." She thrust her dagger into the center of the ward. There was a flare of energy that Optimus was certain had been felt in Las Vegas, then she collected and grounded the energy that she had released.

"And that is that," she said, and moved around him, down the central aisle.

"Where are you going?" he asked her.

Her eyes flashed back at him as she laughed, "To get some Lysol! Some eejit painted piss all over my door frame!"

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The command center was quiet this early in the morning. Chip was out of his chair, lying on his back under a console working on something. Optimus heard a muffled "Good morning" from somewhere inside the console and managed a civil tone of voice in his reply.

He tapped the door to spec ops before barging in. Jazz and Prowl were not quite as inclined toward behaving like those long-eared puff-tailed Earth animals—bunnies?—yes, that was it—as they had been just after their reunion a few orn ago. However, it was still wise not to suddenly open a closed door they were behind if a shift was quiet, as they all had been since the raid.

When he did open the door, Prowl was hardlined to a workstation and Jazz was standing at what might loosely be considered a respectable distance. The hardline told him that, whatever they had or had not been up to, Prowl had continued to use his battle computer to monitor the base, its external and internal transmissions, and the surrounding area, while they did it. Prowl, in short, had been on the case.

Jazz greeted him, "Good joor, boss bot."

"Jazz," he said. "Prowl." He firmly shut the door behind him.

Both of his subordinates read enough in his fields to know something was up.

The black and white Praxian asked, "How can we be of assistance, Prime?"

"Someone booby-trapped Diarwen's door last night."

Jazz helm shot up. "What! Was she hurt?"

"No, she discovered it in time to defuse it harmlessly." He relayed the tale of the Sidhe and her piss-painted door.

Prowl said, "Who else on the base besides Diarwen and yourself knows enough about magic to have done such a thing? I know that it would be beyond _my_ ability."

"No one that we knew of. None of the rest of us have attained this level of proficiency. Well, perhaps Evanon has the requisite knowledge, but he is not in the habit of wandering the base after lights-out, and Diarwen would have recognized his magical signature. That is true of any of us who study in circle with her. But Diarwen saw indications in the ward before she dismantled it that it was inexpertly made. Information about this sort of thing is readily available on the Internet. Undoubtedly, someone downloaded the instructions."

Jazz said, "Are we absolutely sure it wasn't some stupid prank?"

"There is no way to be _absolutely_ sure until we find whoever did this, but I do not believe that Diarwen has done anything lately to encourage either set of twins to prank her."

Jazz said, "Well, the only one who's been feudin' with her is Ratchet, since S5 went home."

"Others might share his suspicions of her."

"Jolt is also a logical possibility," Prowl stated.

Jazz shook his helm. "Ah don't think it was Jolt, Prowler. If he thought she was doing something to endanger anyone, it's more like him to come straight here and report her to ya than to pull a stunt like this."

"You know him better than I," Prowl said. "In any case, if someone used our Internet connection to download this, perhaps I can find the download and discover who was on the Internet at the time. I hate to suggest it, but perhaps we need more surveillance cameras in the indoor common areas of the base. I thought those outdoors would be sufficient, but after this—"

Prime agreed. "Have them installed—but only in the most public areas. And consult with Colonel Lennox first. If he has an objection, then inform me, and I will discuss it with him."

"Yes, Prime."

"And, Prowl? Be sure all the areas around Barricade's apartment are covered. This time, someone pulled what could be considered a nasty prank on Diarwen, who is quite capable of dealing with it. Next time, if one of those anti-Cybertronian protesters should manage to infiltrate the base, he might try to make mischief with the sparklings."

For the last few weeks, the numbers of those protesters had grown steadily. They, their signs, and their bullhorns gathered outside the main gate early in the morning and remained there until it got dark.

Lennox took no action beyond assigning enough guards there to maintain order, and setting a perimeter far enough from the gate to preclude suicide bombing.

Beyond that, the entire garrison was under strict orders to ignore them. No one wanted an incident, especially a repeat of last Litha's near-confrontation at the Sabbat, since the Eastgate Church was out there now. Only the Najantdahls were happy to have them there—the protesters, as well as the reporters covering the protest, bought a lot of snacks and sodas.

Jazz' voice, usually so warm and smooth, turned as cold as winter. "Cade would stomp them, and Ah'd help."

"So would most of the people on this base, mecha and humans alike, but that wouldn't do any good if they succeeded before we caught them," Prowl pointed out. _His_ tone Optimus found no less deadly.

"Point," Jazz conceded. "Ah'll have a look around th' place with an optic toward where Ah'd come in if Ah was tryin' t' make trouble—that's where we need th' most coverage. Ah'll figure out the weak points, you decide how to cover 'em."

Optimus said, "Thank you both. I will leave you to it." With this issue relegated to the saboteur and the security officer, Optimus crossed it off his "To Think About" list. There was no one on base better qualified to address such problems.

When he had gone, Prowl said, "The odds are less than five percent that it was anyone other than Ratchet."

"Ah know that. _Prime_ knows that. But as long as no one _officially_ knows, and no one got hurt, Prime can raise the Pit about it without namin' names and scare him off tryin' anything that stupid again. If he knew for a fact that Ratchet did it, he'd feel obligated to kick the medic's aft for messin' with his femme."

Prowl stopped for exactly .015 klick. "That is precisely the course of action most likely to have a favorable outcome."

Jazz's vocalizer emitted the Cybertronian equivalent of a snort as he went out to take a look around the hangars. He took a moment to savor the sensation of the warm sun heating his back plates before he got to work.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus gave himself time to calm down before he decided what to do. Diarwen would be furious if he flew off the handle, and she would be right to be: it wouldn't help things. Oh, he could put a stop to the problem—but he had to be careful, or he might create a rift within his cohort that would never heal.

His anger still shouted that he wasn't the one who had created it, but someone had to be the adult here. That was and always had been a Prime's job.

After due consideration, he decided that it was time to take action. The safety of everyone on the base was his responsibility—held jointly with Will Lennox, perhaps, but his nevertheless. Diarwen could easily have been seriously injured had she been a little less observant.

Optimus Prime was many things but an idiot was not one of them. He knew that Ratchet was almost certainly the guilty party. He saw no logical reason for the old medic's animosity toward her.

He was certain that xenophobia was not the issue. In the long history of Cybertron it was not the first time that a Prime had been involved in a relationship with a person of another species. Nova Prime, in his day, had been well-known for his open attitude toward romantic attachments, and had taken a wide variety of lovers from all over the Empire: this at the height of its glory, which meant that the variety had been wide indeed.

The decline of that Empire brought with it a more careful, conservative mindset, for risks of any sort were likely to be life-threatening—mates were chosen only after due consideration of the consequences both to the individuals involved and to their cohorts. But there was no traditional cultural basis for the exclusion of a non-Cybertronian for that reason alone.

In all the years that Optimus had known him, Ratchet had never expressed any form of prejudice or bigotry. He advocated caution, but never before had he expressed any sentiment that someone might be undesirable due solely to their physical form.

Optimus concluded that only Ratchet could explain his actions.

Ratchet could not be permitted to take further action against Diarwen—or, for that matter, anyone else. If Optimus had to lay down the law as Prime to put a stop to the shenanigans, that was what he would do, and he would accept the consequences. He hoped that there would be a better way, that he could enforce negotiations between the two that would result in a cease-fire.

He released a long ex-vent, then settled into meditation on the best way to accomplish that goal.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

As was any Cybertronian's, Chromia's experience of actual weather was best described as "minute." On Cybertron, there had been no atmosphere, and therefore no variations in temperature, no wind or rain or snow. Occasionally, after the war began, she had made brief forays onto organic worlds, but never longer than it took to complete a single mission.

Since she had come to Earth, she had experienced periods whose ambient temperature was sometimes twice her own optimal operational ambient temp, periods whose temps were well below it (though far fewer of those in Nevada), periods in which ambient air-flow was so strong, and so filled with grit, that it was miserable just to be out in it, periods in which hydrogen dioxide (in any phase between and including "fully liquid" and "fully solid") fell out of the sky above, and periods in which said hydrogen dioxide stayed suspended in the air.

This morning, the hydrogen dioxide was neither falling nor suspended, and the planet had not yet rotated Nevada far enough to place its star above the horizon, when she encountered Diarwen ni Gilthanel crossing the near-darkness to get to Buzzard Rock.

The morning was chill enough by human or Sidhe standards that Diarwen was bundled into a heavier coat than she used in the later parts of the day. The Sidhe nodded to her and said, "Good joor, Chromia."

"Good joor," Chromia replied. "And it is a fine day today, by your standards?"

Diarwen's eyes crinkled at the corners. "A bit early to say. When the sun comes up, I shall be better able to assess it. And for you?"

"No wind-blown grit and no precipitation," Chromia replied with a smile of her own, "so it's fine by me."

The Sidhe laughed and moved off on her errand, Chromia watching until she faded into the gray. Then Ironhide's mate transformed and drove to the quarters where Sam and Carly lived.

Parking beside Bumblebee, whom she was relieving, she felt him pull in his fields. But that wasn't enough to conceal from her that they were a chaotic mess.

::What's wrong, Bee?:: she sent.

He sighed. ::I don't know exactly. I suppose it's because Sam asked me to watch over Carly in his place when he's in Washington D.C., and her pregnancy is becoming advanced enough to slow her down. My guardian protocols demand that I stay with her, yet my duty to the Autobots requires me to travel to Mexico. The conflict is...difficult.::

She felt her brow plates contract; Ironhide's guardianship of Will Lennox included caring for his family as well, but had never, to her sure knowledge, pulled him away from Will when the pair were deployed. ::Ordinary guardian protocols shouldn't cause conflicts generated by the need to protect anyone except the guarded.::

::Tell that to Hide where Sarah and the girls are concerned,:: Bee said.

She grinned. ::I know...but that's Ironhide. Less his programming, really, than his temperament. He's pretty much everyone's Guardian, been armsmaster to half the bots here, and you know Hide and sparklings.::

::I know.::

::I don't want to denigrate your problem, but it doesn't make sense, Bee.::

The young scout hesitated. ::Don't take this the wrong way, Chromia. I would protect Carly and her creation regardless. But I believe the guardian protocol is activating for Sam's sake. You know that Sam was...traumatized by the war. It is not easy to become a soldier at such a young age. It wasn't easy for me, and I had the advantage of some training before I jumped straight into the middle of it. Sam was an ordinary young man, a neutral if you will, when we imposed our war on him, and it cost him a great deal. When he and Mikaela broke up, I watched him very carefully for a long while. If anything were to happen to Carly and the child, that might be more than he could endure.::

She took a moment to assess what he said. Bee was closer to Sam than was any other Cybertronian, except perhaps Optimus.

But the issue Bee raised was, after all, easily resolved, though she rather thought she'd tell Ratchet of this discussion, and let the old knothead sort out the young scout. Programming glitches could cause any number of things, and the conflict Bee was experiencing could well be one of them. She pinged Ironhide, and relayed the problem to him. ::Ironhide said to tell you we'll watch over her while you're gone. He's setting up the shifts now. And, Bee? Tell Ratchet about this. He can help if it's a physical problem or a programming conflict.::

That settled the young scout's fields. ::Thank you,:: he sent, and Chromia could feel his very spark behind that simple expression of gratitude.

Before he left for Mexico, he scheduled an appointment with Ratchet; it only made sense to do so prior to undertaking a lengthy distant reconnaissance. But the medic found nothing amiss with his guardian protocols.

(End Part Six)


	7. Chapter 7

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Seven

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Bumblebee lowered his windows. He apologized to Figueroa and Simmons, "Sorry...I can't...afford the energon...to...cool...my...passenger compartment."

Figueroa said, "No worries, _hermano_. Any idea where to start looking?"

Bee replied, "Near the sea...Spanish...ruins. If I...get close...enough...spark signatures."

Fig said, "There are roads all through the jungle from Campeche, but there isn't one specific road that runs right along the coast. How close do you need to get?"

"Not sure...depends...stone hides...signatures."

"Well, right now we're in Campeche. We need to head northeast towards Merida, from there to Cancun, and then south to Chetumal, which is on the border with the nation of Belize—which will be our next stop if we don't find them in Mexico. If we go directly, those are the main roads, but they are some distance from the coast. We'll probably end up travelling the back roads through the smaller towns."

Bee said, "News stories...drug wars...much violence. In this area?"

"Not quite as much as in the states along the US border, where the smuggling of drugs and people is concentrated. There is virtually a war going on in that region. But the cartels are powerful, and very wealthy. Their reach certainly extends here, and there is still smuggling through the Florida Keys as well. We need to be careful. Also, Bee, especially if you are alone, a car with US plates could be a target for thieves. Not that I think they could take you, but it would attract attention that we'd be better off avoiding."

"Understood."

While the violence had cut down on the number of tourists, there were still quite a few, enough that they hoped a couple of nondescript guys on a road trip wouldn't attract undue attention. If questioned, their cover was that they had just got back from Afghanistan and Fig and his wounded buddy were searching for Fig's roots before they settled down to hunt civilian jobs. Fig had a list of old graveyards all over the Yucatan, where his ancestor's graves might be located.

This was a bald-faced lie, as his ancestors had lived in St. Augustine for a couple of centuries. But he had some maternal ancestors named Guzman, which was a common Mexican name found on any number of old graves. It would give them a good excuse to ask about colonial-era churches.

Colonial-era churches were made of old stone.

Not too far from the airport, they found a restaurant that looked pretty good to Figueroa, and had a sunny parking lot for Bee's enjoyment. They started their trip off on a high note: a full tank and a shot of ethanol to keep problems from building up for Bee, and _real_ Mexican food for the humans.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Early on a late January morning, the rotors of a squadron of Ospreys from Nellis AFB interrupted the shouts of the protesters gathered outside the Mission City Base. This was not unusual, so other than complaining about the racket, nobody paid much attention—until the Ospreys broke formation to take up positions around the base. A few moments later, a full wing of fighter jets began what the Air Force veterans among the protestors recognized as a combat air patrol flight pattern, beautiful birds of prey engaging in an aerial dance. The shouting died down for a bit, as people put down their signs to take out their cell phone-mounted cameras.

A few moments later, another flight of helicopters arrived—news choppers from the Las Vegas media. Their pilots were very careful to obey the Air Force's instructions regarding where they could and could not fly.

All they had been told, half an hour ago, was to bring their best telephoto lenses, and to expect a once-in-a-lifetime event.

The reporters from the news trucks already there were not notified that anything was going to happen until the news choppers arrived. They were kept hopping to cover both the protesters' reactions and whatever was happening overhead.

The protest already had the Clark County Sheriff's Department out in force to control traffic, so they were prepared when sightseers from Tranquility and Mission City began to stream in.

Until now, the onlookers had been mostly protesters and reporters, with a few deputies to keep a lid on things. But now, the numbers of curious bystanders began to outnumber the protesters.

The guards at the gate called it in when a gang of bikers came down the highway, each one carrying a huge American flag.

Will Lennox was out at the site when his radio beeped for attention. "Lennox."

"Graham, sir. The Liberty Riders just rolled in. There are about twenty bikers from Tranquility at the moment. According to a friend of mine who rides with them, they're mobilizing more from Las Vegas."

"They've always been great about keeping the peace at funerals where the Eastland Church is protesting. Does it look like there's going to be a problem today?"

"Not from the Riders, but if Uncle Pete starts pinging away with his slingshot again the way he did at that funeral in St. Louis, I don't think they'll stand there and get hit by very many nuts and bolts before they do something about it."

"Alert the sheriff's office about Uncle Pete's presence. He couldn't hit the broad side of a barn, but he's liable to miss a biker and hit some bystander who happens to be carrying a gun."

"Yes, sir."

Optimus Prime pulled to a stop, waited while Diarwen jumped lightly from his cab, then disconnected from his trailer and transformed to root mode. Diarwen asked, "Can you see him yet?"

"Not yet; he is awaiting word from Nellis before entering atmosphere. He is hovering in a geostationary orbit, approximately 500 miles up, about twice as far from the Earth as the International Space Station."

"What are they waiting for, do you know?"

"Confirmation that NORAD is aware of his projected entry vector. They will be closely monitoring for any launches from hostile territory. There was a concern at the Pentagon that enemies of the United States might attempt to shoot him down."

"Wouldn't he be capable of shooting down an incoming missile?"

"Certainly," Optimus replied. "His point-defense systems would easily be able to track and destroy anything manufactured here. I would prefer to avoid advertising that fact, however. The success of the Tomahawk missiles against Megatron's seekers in Chicago eased the fears of many people. Excellion's size will be enough for them to deal with today."

Optimus sent a command transforming his trailer into command post mode, and activated its navigation beacon.

"It would appear that we are also awaiting the arrival of General Rittenour and his entourage from Nellis."

Diarwen put her sunglasses on and watched a group of fighter jets cross the cloudless blue sky. Her own fear of flying notwithstanding, they were beauties, and their precision flying was breathtaking as well.

Undoubtedly, orders had come down that the world's first public landing by extraterrestrials was to happen without incident. Nellis was doing everything in their considerable power to make sure it went exactly that way.

A few minutes later, several staff cars arrived, bearing a three star general and his entourage.

Lennox and his men snapped off salutes, which the general returned. He and Lennox exchanged a few words, then Lennox introduced the general to Optimus.

"A pleasure to finally meet you in person, General," Optimus said.

"Likewise, Prime. Colonel Lennox tells me we're awaiting clearance from NORAD."

"Yes, General. There was a brief concern about some activity in North Korea, but it has been explained as having nothing to do with us. Excellion is conducting his final atmospheric insertion check now. He should begin deorbiting procedures in approximately 90 seconds."

"What will we see?"

"He will deorbit in ship form—" Prime glanced at those of his companions who were not familiar with high-altitude flight, and explained, "—because that form is designed to withstand the stresses involved in reentry. He will first be visible as a point of light. He will conduct several deorbital burns in order to reduce velocity and correct his course, most of which should also be visible from the ground. Then, he will hover over the pad and first melt the rock and sand with a final burn, then create a force field for containment and release a cloud of coolant which will solidify the pad on contact, shaping it properly for him to come to rest upon it. He will then derez the force field and settle into place, transforming into cityform as he does so. There is another checklist sequence in order to make sure that all his systems are in order following transformation. Once that is completed, he will secure from general quarters, and his passengers will be free to disembark."

The General shut his jaw with an effort. "I take it this isn't something that happens very often."

"No, sir. Cityformers are usually content to remain in one form until there is a good reason for them to change it. They may remain stationary for several vorn—a vorn is 83 of your years, sir—before moving again."

The crowd of Autobots was growing. To human ears, an excited cacophony of beeps, chirps, whistles and clicks filled the air as the Cybertronians eagerly awaited reunion with long-lost friends and cohort-mates. Lennox picked up several words, primarily names which he had often heard mentioned as they awaited Excellion's arrival. The brass from Nellis didn't understand a word of it—didn't even recognize it as language. And if they weren't cleared to know what it was, damned if Lennox would tell them.

Optimus' helm reflexively turned skyward as he communicated with the distant cityformer.

"Excellion reports that he will commence his first deorbital burn in five...four...three...two...one...mark!"

Dozens of pairs of eyes and optics scanned the sky. It was Skimmer, with a Seeker's sharp optics and innate understanding of the mechanics of flight, who first spotted a tiny pinpoint of flame, well before anyone but his siblings could see.

"There he is!" he shouted, pointing, and everyone looked where the young Winglord pointed. Soon others, at first Cybertronian and then human, took up the cry as the huge Transformer approached.

Optimus scanned the landing area, making certain that everyone was well clear of the blast radius that Excellion would need to prepare his landing pad.

At the edge of their operational altitude, a wing of fighter jets fell into an escort formation, and the leader dipped his wing in salute. Excellion recognized this as his first welcome to Earth from a fellow lord of the skies, and sent thanks with a pattern of flashing lights along his plating.

The Aerialbots came in from their more distant patrol and joined the Air Force planes' formation, following their lead. They were guests here, and their seeker-based coding meshed perfectly with the human pilots' protocols; with a brief transmission to introduce themselves, they merged seamlessly into the escort wing.

Excellion descended gracefully. Like all seekerkin, he was VTOL-capable, though his immense size made takeoff and landing a lot more complicated than his smaller relatives' aerobatics.

By now the entire crowd out on the highway was watching and pointing as a being the size of an aircraft carrier slowly came into view, his bright orange and red plating glowing even brighter with the heat of atmospheric insertion, surrounded by a flock of fighter craft both human and Cybertronian. Everyone who had any kind of device to do so was recording Excellion's landing.

The crowd of protesters fragmented between those who were horrified by the arrival of more aliens, and those who saw the value of having such a being present.

Even though the Transformers were unequivocally neutral concerning human politics, any would-be enemy would know that an attack that struck at their homes would be taken personally: and the prospect of hacking off a person of Excellion's size might encourage hesitation.

Those conservatives who objected to the Transformers on budgetary grounds could still see the value in having such an individual here, in a way that those who objected for reasons of race or religion were not quite able to manage. The difference of opinion started a process of factionalization which was evident in a number of small arguments among the protesters.

For the sightseers and UFO buffs in the crowd, none of that made any difference. They were awed to witness such a historic event, and most were also annoyed by the protesters.

The shipformer disappeared into one of the base's steep-sided valleys, and for the crowd outside the gates, the show was over.

For those inside the base, it was just beginning. Excellion complimented the Wreckers on his new accommodations as he activated his thrusters. When his sensors revealed that the stone was melted to the proper depth, he rezzed a force field, forming channels for the power and water hookups he would require, and began the transformation sequence from ship to city. The noise was deafening, and the process was punctuated by clouds of vapor as he blasted the molten pad with coolant. It crackled loudly as the force field gradually derezzed, allowing him to settle. Once that was complete, he thrust anchoring pins deep into the stone, where they would remain until he blasted them loose the next time he decided to move. Cables and water conduits snaked through their channels, and the Wreckers hurried to complete the hookups.

The General asked Prime, "You wouldn't have had open water on Cybertron."

That was clearly a rhetorical statement—open water does not exist in the vacuum present on the surface of Cybertron—but Prime answered anyway. "No, we did not. We used water as a solvent in pressurized areas, but it had to be imported, usually in the form of ice asteroids. Excellion anticipates having human inhabitants in the future, and wished to make arrangements from the beginning. Before his arrival, he requested human architectural specifications, and incorporated human-specific areas into his transformation sequence."

"I see. That was very thoughtful of him."

The noise and bustle gradually ceased. Finally, Excellion sent up two spires, which reached above the canyon walls into the sunlight. Each unfolded a parasol structure—solar collectors which acted as giant energon cubes to provide for the needs of the cityformer and his inhabitants.

Optimus smiled. If Wheeljack's estimates were correct, it would soon be possible to bring his people out of stasis.

Some distance away, Skysong, perched on Flareup's shoulder, asked, "Are they coming out today?"

"Yes, sweetspark. Be patient and let Excellion get settled. Then I'm sure they'll all want to come out and get a good look at an organic world."

Skimmer landed on Barricade's shoulder. "There are seekers with him, I can hear them on our frequency! When are they going to land?"

Stormy landed on his other shoulder, and Barricade said, "Soon, I'm sure. But, Skimmer, the way I understand it, those aren't really seekers like you and your brother and sister. The Aerialbots are fliers with some seeker coding, but not all of it. Cut 'em some slack if they don't act like you expect seekers to act. They never did feel obliged to follow Starscream, so they may not have Flock protocols."

"They were Starscream's rivals, weren't they?"

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know; I know he really didn't like the leader of the Aerialbots, but he didn't like a lot of people. I don't think Silverbolt—that's their leader's name—was challenging Starscream for leadership of the Flock, so I really don't know why Starscream hated him so much."

"So," the young Winglord of Vos said, "they're flyers, not seekers."

"Yes. They're probably not any more seekers than Praxians are."

"Oh, OK. Like you?"

"Yeah. Like me."

"It's sad you don't got wings. You could fly real good if you did," Skimmer said, with a grin Barricade had grown to be wary around.

"Don't you get any ideas, short stuff. I'm perfectly happy on the ground." He tousled the little yellow mech's plating.

Flareup giggled.

Skimmer tilted his helm sideways and gave Barricade a long look, trying to figure out being "perfectly happy on the ground."

Barricade distracted him. "Look, he's extending his ramp. His passengers will be coming out in a klick."

Others in the crowd noticed the same thing, and the excitement made a quantum leap upward. Wheeljack and the Wreckers were chattering excitedly. Ratchet joined them.

Slowly, the cityformer's great main hatch irised open.

Drift, Excellion's captain, was the first down the ramp, gleaming white plating shining in the sun, the gemmed hilt of his Great Sword glowing like a small star in its own right.

He crossed directly to Optimus and went to one knee. "Prime, as you commanded, we have come."

The Prime replied, "Welcome home, Knight Captain Drift. Rise, my friend."

The Knight of Light did so, and took his place among the officers.

Prime said, "Excellion, Autobots, people of Cybertron: Welcome to Earth."

A shout went up, and the floodgates opened. Cybertronians streamed down the ramp, and the two crowds mingled, as bots sought out family and friends that they hadn't seen in vorn. Bulkhead and Wheeljack embraced like brothers, pounding each other on the backstruts, and then the Wreckers piled on Bulkhead and Hot Rod, their laughter booming off the canyon walls.

Perceptor was riding on Moonracer's shoulder. He leapt to Ratchet's arms and the two old friends embraced, then Percy introduced his apprentice, and Ratchet introduced Jolt.

As each bot left Excellion, he or she was bathed in glorious, life-giving sunlight. Many gasped in surprise as, for the first time, their systems began producing energon. In wonder, they turned their optics to the sky.

Joy was often tempered with sorrow, as the newcomers brought confirmation of the deactivation of loved ones lost at Tyger Pax, but that was closure: an end to unfounded hope, a burst of grief, perhaps, but not unexpected news.

Dozens of civilians who did not have relatives here gawked and pointed at the wonders of an organic planet, the first that most had seen up close, the first that many had set ped on.

The humans were even more of a wonder to them. Optimus had already sent Excellion the safety protocols which insured that their proximity sensors would detect the small beings running around their peds, and the cityformer had made sure they were distributed. They had also seen plenty of pictures once they came within range of the Earth's internet. Therefore they had known what to expect, but it was still amazing to meet actual organic aliens for the first time.

Among the last out were the ship's orphaned younglings, and their teacher, the Elder Conservator Milestrina.

The Conservator was accompanied by a young gray mech who carried a sniper rifle on his back. He offered his arm as they descended the ramp. Milestrina looked around with just as much wonder on her faceplates as any of the adolescents who surrounded her.

Then she saw Optimus, and pointed him out to the younglings. They all approached in a group, with Milestrina shepherding some of the more nervous ones along.

The young sniper saluted. "Bluestreak, sir, reporting as ordered!"

"Welcome," Optimus replied. "You're Bumblebee's friend, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir. Drift said he was here."

"He is...somewhere. Ah. Over there with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe."

The mechling practically bounced on his peds. Optimus grinned. "Dismissed!"

He took off, like—well—a blue streak, shouting to Bee, and the two shared a boisterous embrace. The other reason for Bluestreak's name became apparent as he started talking a mile a minute, trying to catch up all at once on all the vorn they had been separated.

Milestrina and Optimus watched fondly for a moment, then she looked up—and up—at Optimus. "Dear Patron, it takes vorn off my age to see you again."

He smiled down to her. "Indeed, Conservator. You have always been a shadow among shadows, and once I left Cybertron, you were lost to me. Until Excellion made contact with us again, I had no idea whether you still functioned. It is wonderful beyond words to have you here with us again. How have you been?"

"As well as my vorn allow," she smiled. "Excellion and Drift and the others have taken very good care of me through some trying times, Patron."

"I can imagine. ―Is there anything that you need at the moment?"

"Not a thing," she smiled. "Some of these young ones, though, are due a visit to the Masterhealer, or so Perceptor has indicated. These are the civilian survivors of the Tyger Pax youth sectors, a few dependents of the Tyger Pax guard who took refuge with me when the fighting began, and these two are Sapphire and her brother Obsidian, of Terroll House." She sent on a private channel, ::The heirs of Sunstone.::

::Drift has made me aware of that situation,:: Optimus assured her.

Sunstone had been the head of a noble house and the owner of several slaves, which he and his bondmate Starfall had brought with them when they escaped. However, when they had been found by Excellion, Drift had freed the slaves and welcomed them among Excellion's passengers.

The two nobles had not taken it well, Sunstone to the extent that Drift had decided it was too dangerous to keep him and Starfall on board Excellion. Sunstone and his bonded had been left behind on a former mining world while Excellion continued the journey.

The rest of Terroll House, when given the choice, opted to go with Excellion.

The two young nobles remembered their manners first, and dropped to one knee, offering glyphs of respect and allegiance, with the rest of the younglings awkwardly following suit.

Optimus welcomed them graciously and got them off their knees, then Chromia approached and took the crowd of younglings aside to assess their needs.

Flareup bowed to Milestrina. "Flareup, Elder Conservator. Welcome. You honor our cohort with your presence. May I have the honor of showing you around?"

"I'd like that very much, thank you! I have so many questions! Are you one of Ironhide's cohort, the one who has a twin sister? I'm sure I've seen you with the Prime on occasion, before his ascension to the Council."

"Yes, that would be me."

Milestrina smiled, set her servo on the younger femme's forearm, and went with Flareup.

Optimus turned to Drift and Prowl. "Once everyone has had a few joor to get settled, I'd like to have a meeting with senior staff; it should be held aboard Excellion, so that he may participate. Drift, you and your officers, as well as the representative of the civilians, should come also. Let's make it the beginning of second joor tomorrow."

Prowl nodded, already scheduling the meeting and notifying those bots who would be expected to attend. "Yes, Prime."

The general nodded to Optimus. "Prime, it looks like you've got your work cut out for you getting your newcomers situated. Give me a call when you can, and we'll see what changes we both have to make with regards to new capabilities."

"Yes. I would also like to discuss with you, when it is convenient, how best to integrate flight-capable Autobots with US forces."

"I'm looking forward to that conversation myself, Prime!" the general grinned.

Excellion raised a pair of antennae, and soon after that, reported to Optimus that his sensor systems were on line and covering the Mission City base and surrounding area.

Optimus replied, ::Thank you, Excellion. Aerialbots, you may land when ready.::

Silverbolt replied, ::Acknowledged. Aerialbots en route.::

The five fliers swooped down.

Guided by instincts as old as his frametype, Starskimmer took to the air to meet them and began to sing.

Stormy followed more slowly, and though Skysong's spark was there too, she herself could not be. Coolant pooled in her optics, but she stayed on Flareup's shoulder and kept those optics on her brothers.

Silverbolt hesitated, drawn to the mechling as he had once been drawn to Starscream. For a moment, he bristled, hesitating between challenge and response. Starscream had been a Decepticon, the enemy. Challenge had been the only logical reaction. This was a sparkling. Why was his challenge coding even activating? But, equally, why would he consider following the lead of a sparkling? He sent an uncertain glyph to Optimus. ::Please advise.::

::Follow your spark,:: Optimus encouraged.

Barricade's optics blazed white as his guardian protocols took over. His guns went hot.

Silverbolt sent an identification string query to the tiny seeker.

Starskimmer replied with identity, lineage, and a glyph of loyalty to the Prime.

Conflicts resolved, Silverbolt replied with his own identity, and glyphs of loyalty to the Prime and to the Winglord.

The sun flashed off six pairs of wings in a complicated airborne dance of celebration, a sphere with the small yellow seeker at its center. Stormy joined his brother, flying the same pattern just off Skimmer's wing.

Barricade slowly stood down and relaxed.

General Rittenour asked Optimus, "What just happened?"

Optimus said, "The seekers are a very old frametype. Their clans still maintain customs for which we grounders no longer have the coding, if our frametypes ever did. This is their way of making introductions."

"Extremely impressive."

"They're all…very young," Optimus replied quietly.

"Noticed the same thing last time I inspected the flight line," replied the general. "They all looked like a bunch of kids to me."

The two of them exchanged a glance, and a chuckle of understanding. Then the general said, with a wholly unfeigned air of regret, "I'll be getting back."

"Thank you for coming. Shall I call you tomorrow, following the staff meeting?"

"Sounds good," Rittenour said. "Anything more we can help you with?"

"I think we have everything in servo from here. Your work to secure the airspace was invaluable."

"It's going to take technological advances far beyond what either of us has access to before anyone in a deorbital burn has full situational awareness. Glad we could be of assistance as a deterrent to rash action on someone's part, whether Soundwave's crowd or other humans who don't like us all that much." Rittenour gave the Prime a nod.

Optimus watched as the general gathered his staff and departed, and then he made sure that the Autobots were tending to the civilians.

Once that was in hand, he went with Prowl and Drift to board Excellion, and see how the cityformer was settling in.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The White House Situation Room was filled with people who were avidly watching the landing on a wall-sized screen.

"Charlotte, I understand that you have a list of these new Cybertronians?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Tell us what you can about them."

"Sir. The white mech with the glyphs painted on his armor is Drift. He's Excellion's captain and a Knight of Light. As Optimus Prime described them to me, they were a pacifistic religious order who were expert swordsmen and martial artists. After the Fall of Cybertron, they chose to leave their stronghold and take a stand against Megatron in defense of civilians. Drift is believed to be the last surviving Knight.

"That green cycleformer is Moonracer, an apprentice medic. The small mech she's carrying is her craftmaster, Healer Perceptor. They're joining Ratchet and Jolt now."

The President watched the multi-colored chaos for a few moments, then said, "No heavy warbuilds so far."

Mearing smiled. "They're next. The large green mech and the flame-patterned bot standing next to him are Bulkhead and Hot Rod, Wreckers: they were demolition experts before the war, and that's a skill that transfers into combat pretty directly. The smaller green mech right behind them would be Hound. He's a scout and tracker, and Drift's exec.

"That group of five younglings following them down the ramp call themselves the Protectobots. They're a young gestalt; they form a combiner known as Defensor. Optimus wasn't able to tell me very much about them, since they had grown into the ability to combine shortly before the battle of Tyger Pax began. They were still living in the youth sector there when the 'Cons raided it. They escaped, along with several other younglings who lived there."

"What is a youth sector?"

"It was an area of a town devoted to the first independent residences of young bots; Prime compared it to a secondary boarding school or a college dormitory. It was a protected place where their young people could take their first steps into the adult world. Some towns, such as Tyger Pax, also built orphanages there following the Fall, when there were more orphans than foster families could be found for them."

"I see. And this crowd of bots coming down the ramp now?"

"Mr. President, the only one that I recognize is Rivet, in the bright blue armor. She's the elected leader of the civilians, and a construction worker by trade."

The SecDef said, "It's easy to tell the warframes when you see them all side by side like that. Some of these new ones hardly seem to have any weaponry or armor at all, and most of them are much smaller."

Mearing speculated, "The little, fast ones probably had the best chance to make it through enemy lines to Excellion when Tyger Pax went to hell in a hand basket, and the 'Cons were shooting at anything that moved."

That brought home to many people in the room that these were refugees from a genocidal war different only in scale from the ones in Bosnia and Rwanda—instead of a nation, the Fall of Cybertron had engulfed an interstellar empire.

The President asked, "What needs do you anticipate the refugees having?"

"At this point, we don't know, Mr. President. Possibly raw materials for repairs, or even for new frames if some of the younglings are ready to be upgraded to adults. Since they aren't warframes, for the most part, we may be able to source suitable materials here on Earth."

Obama asked, "Aren't there at least two derelict Cybertronian spacecraft? There's the wreckage of the _Ark_ on the moon, and the Fallen's ship. Can they salvage those?"

"They are in the process of determining if it's feasible to salvage the _Ark_. That's important to them not only for practical reasons, but emotional ones as well: the crew of the _Ark_ was made up of Autobots. They don't want to leave their own behind, Mr. President."

"Of course not."

"If the Fallen's ship, the _Nemesis_, can be located, they intend to salvage her as well, if possible. There's some speculation that most of the ship may be too contaminated with dark energon to be useful, and they'll end up having to scuttle her into the sun to eliminate a hazard to navigation. But until she's found, that's academic."

"Is there any chance that the _Nemesis_ is a sparked being? Maybe she's difficult to find because she doesn't want to be found."

Everyone in the room froze as they considered the President's suggestion.

Mearing said, "Sir, with your permission, I'd like to ask Optimus Prime that question."

"Certainly, Director."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe did not have any close friends aboard Excellion, so after they greeted a few acquaintances including Excellion himself, Prime assigned them to welcome the new civilians, and Ratchet asked them to make sure no one who needed medical care slipped through the cracks amid all the excitement.

Under the circumstances of extreme scarcity which had prevailed during their journey, the medic suspected that at least a few of the civilians might have failed to report needed maintenance to Perceptor and Moonracer. While that would have freed resources for repair and upkeep of the warframes, and was thus perfectly understandable, even admirable, in the circumstances, they were unlikely to admit to Ratchet or Jolt that they had done so. Ratchet hoped that they wouldn't think it necessary to conceal such wear and tear from the twins.

Having been Ratchet's Guarded when they were mechlings, Sides and Sunny were decent combat medics. Once Ratchet told them what to look for, he was confident in their ability to assess the company's needs.

He himself would go over their report with Perceptor to determine who needed to be summoned to medbay for an overhaul.

"I think we got 'em all. Do you need us for anything else?" Sides asked.

"No, I don't think so. It looks like you got everyone; thanks."

"OK, ping us if anything else comes up." The twins left the medbay, and exited the building through the back door.

Sideswipe asked, "What do you want to do now?"

"Let's get back to the party."

"Sounds good to me!"

They transformed and went back to the crowd of people around Excellion, to find that the gathering had moved into Excellion's flight deck. Jazz had cranked up the music, and there were dozens of bots out on the dance floor. He had raised an area for the humans to join in, because the newcomers were not yet convinced that their upgraded proximity sensor protocols made it safe for humans to be right underped in such a crowd. Confidence would come with familiarity, but that hadn't happened yet.

In the meanwhile, Bumblebee was introducing Hot Rod and Bluestreak to Evanon, Junior, the Tiny Trine, and some of the other children.

Bluestreak brought Obsidian and Sapphire over to meet them as well. The two young nobles bowed politely. Sapphire said, "Thank you for your warm welcome. Please take good care of us."

The American kids looked at each other in puzzlement, as that seemed a strange sort of thing to say, but one young Japanese girl stepped forward confidently and bowed in return. "Konichiwa! I am Nakadai Miko. We're so excited to meet you. I'm sure we are all going to have a very good time together."

The two younglings chorused, "Thank you, Miko-chan!"

Sideswipe asked Sunstreaker, "What do you think that was all about?"

Sunstreaker speculated, "Those two must have been introduced to Earth by way of the Japanese areas of the internet. I don't think they realize yet that the customs are different."

"Good thing Miko was here to help them settle in."

"It won't be a week until she has them trained. Then we'll move in and recruit them," the golden twin grinned.

Sideswipe snickered. "I'll bet Drift is another one who will be drawn to Japanese culture, and I'm surprised Prowl wasn't, considering he translated his function as cyberninja."

"Prowl is Prowl," Sunstreaker said. "He's a law unto himself no matter what culture he lands in." Not that Sunny would ever admit it, but he had always envied the strategist's calm self-possession.

An older dark-haired boy introduced himself as Jack Darby. His mother, June, was one of the base's nursing staff. Jack then introduced Figueroa's nephew, Raf Esquivel, who had moved in with the Figueroas after his parents had a nasty divorce.

Sides said, "I'm going to find Arcee."

"Over there with Jolt and that new healer, Moonracer."

"I see her. Thanks."

Sunstreaker looked around for somebot to dance with, and two of the civilians caught his optic. He called up the file that everyone had been given, located their descriptions, and found designations: Zephyr and Tracer. Zephyr had been newly upgraded to her adult frame at the time of the battle, and had not yet taken on a permanent function. She had trained as part of the ship's militia. Tracer, her roommate, was a few vorn older, a former city services worker who now helped Excellion with whatever repairs he needed.

Something about Tracer's optics captured Sunstreaker's attention. A shadowed look of age beyond her vorn, a piercing stare that missed nothing. His servos itched for his brushes. He wanted to paint Tracer. In more ways than one. Both as the subject of a portrait—and, he thought, there were so many ways that he could customize her paint job to bring out the inner beauty he sensed.

He had already taken several steps in her direction before he realized he was moving.

(End Part Seven)


	8. Chapter 8

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Eight

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Milestrina's quarters seemed small, because one wall was taken up by a row of chests containing the tools of a conservator's trade—costumes, jewelry, a collection of holoprojectors used to help set a stage. Optimus remembered as a mechling, new to the palace, how magical those things had seemed.

Every wall of the Elder Conservator's quarters was covered with hangings, fewer and simpler by far than those which had graced her chambers in the palace.

The ones she had now were made of castoffs, and whatever she had been able to scrounge from the abandoned settlements that Excellion had passed by. Like so much else in their lives now, Optimus realized with a pang, what she had of beauty was carved from castoffs. "Did you make all of these?"

She smiled at him, and ran her ancient servo down one of the more textured hangings. "I had a lot of help, Patron. We had to make our own entertainment, you see, and many of my shipmates enjoy the old crafts. I remember when you first came to us, you were surprised that mecha once made nearly everything with our own servos."

He laughed. "I was used to my guardians giving me a few shanix and sending me down to the fabricator's shop to have whatever we needed replicated. We neighborhood sparklings loved to stand at the railing and watch the fabricating drone print things."

"It was much faster and cheaper that way, but art gave way to efficiency. The craftsmecha who designed the dimensional printing files usually did so virtually, and might never see the finished object. Excellion only has one fabricator, which is part of himself rather than a drone. We needed to use the supplies for it, and his energy, sparingly. We learned to make do, to improvise. That turned out to be a blessing, because it gave bots new skills to learn and interesting things to keep us all occupied during the long joor between our ports of call."

"The mecha who have made that journey all seem to be doing fairly well, in processor as well as in frame. I suspect that we have you to thank for that as much as the healers."

"I'm a Conservator. Preserving us all and passing on our heritage—teaching—is my primary function. Nearly all bots are anxious to learn, given the opportunity. Some of them, especially the civilians, did not have that opportunity back on Cybertron. After we escaped, they were enthusiastic students. It was a pleasure." She sighed. "And, a necessity as well. This is my last frame, Patron."

Optimus felt his spark stutter within his chestplates. "Milestrina, no."

She smiled up at him, and set down the lovely little energon pot she had picked up. "It is the way of things, youngling. We came upon a deactivated frame which had not suffered any truly irreparable damage. All the elders were given the opportunity to cast lots for it. Perceptor examined us. I learned that the connections between my spark and its casing have degraded considerably. Now," she said, waving away his effort to deny that, "I doubt that I am going to deactivate within the vorn if I remain as I am, but there is very little chance that my spark would transfer successfully to a new frame. Therefore, I declined to participate in the lottery. I would rather live every joor to its fullest as I am, than risk my remaining vorn on the slim chance that a reformat would be successful. Do not mourn me when the time comes. My journey has been long delayed, and I have too many loved ones waiting in the Well of All Sparks for anyone to be sorrowful when I go to join them."

They fell silent for a few moments, pondering the eventual fate of all living beings, and the loss to society that any passing involves—the Prime with a spark clenching in sorrow, Milestrina perhaps less so: the gifts of great age are many.

Then the Elder Conservator ran a servo down a particularly lovely hanging, and touched a clumsily-made but recognizable sculpture of the Matrix before she glanced up to her Patron and said, "I must preserve as much of my memory as possible. My memory core will be archived, of course, and I have chosen heirs to receive the most important records as a direct transmission. But, as often as I could, I taught the old songs and stories and dances directly, bot to bot: so the line of teaching is intact, and will survive me. Some of those songs and dances, Optimus, come from the dawn of our records. I've made sure that as much as possible will get passed down as living memory, not merely dry, preserved memory files."

"Yes," he said, looking down to her and thinking that in its way, being a Conservator was as much an act of worship as being a Prime. "That's much preferable. One's fields are not recorded on memory files. We are extraordinarily fortunate to have you among us, Elder Conservator."

Her ancient optics flashed, and Optimus suddenly saw the young bot who had chosen to become a Conservator for the love of what her people valued. "I do not believe that Primus has brought us through everything we have suffered only to see our culture die out because the likes of Soundwave and Strika would pick and choose what the new seekerlings should be taught. The worst excesses of the caste system did not come about until after it was decided that lower-caste mecha did not need to know much in order to perform their function. When we remember our history, we value our liberty. I will start a school here, I think, and take apprentices to be conservators after me. And I will teach everyone who wants to learn. With your permission, of course, Prime."

"Granted, of course," Optimus said with a smile. Until Gaia was a bit older, the seekers might have the advantage in replacing their numbers, but if they wanted to pass on Cybertronian culture to their hatchlings, they would have to come to Milestrina for that. He was very glad that the Elder Conservator was on his side.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ratchet, Wheeljack and Perceptor went over the list of bots that the Big Twins had turned in. Perceptor tapped the first name on the list and warned Ratchet, "I don't care how irritated you are at this bot for letting maintenance slide, do not under any circumstances throw a wrench at Rivet. I promise you, you will get it back with interest. As a matter of fact, it may be best if we keep Rivet on my list."

The vagaries of patients never failed to fascinate the medic. "Why?"

"She's accustomed to me, and I don't threaten her, because I'm small. She's a survivor of a lot of things that patient confidentiality prevents me from discussing unless she accepts you as her healer, but let's just say she can be very temperamental if she gets the impression that anyone is thinking of making decisions on her behalf. If you ever do have to treat her, it would simplify your life considerably to list her options and the expected prognosis of each as neutrally as possible, and reserve your opinion until she asks for it."

Ratchet nodded. "I'll keep that in mind. If she trusts you, though, I agree that it would be best to keep her in your care as much as possible."

Perceptor nodded, then tilted his tiny helm toward the inventor and asked, "Wheeljack, is that an apprentice healer's glyph?"

"It is. I'm still for the most part an engineer, but I also fabricate components. The way we've modified ourselves from non-combatant frames into warbots, most of us no longer even vaguely resemble our original specifications. Everything is bespoke. I didn't feel comfortable doing work that dedicated healer-artisans would have done in the old days, not without a medic's oath to protect both me and my patients."

"Of course! I only meant that a great deal has happened while we were bumming around the galaxy. I've missed a lot."

"Well, we came through it all, and we're back together now. We've even got a new generation coming on, with Jolt and Moonracer."

Ratchet raised his high-grade, only a tiny bit in the bottom of a small cube, but this was a day for it. "I'll drink to that!"

Perceptor said, "Hear, hear," and he and Wheeljack drained their rations as well.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

It was late evening when Optimus finally found the time to go to Jazz' dance party on the flight deck. Diarwen was already there, listening intently to a dance tune that Jazz and Flareup were playing. Milestrina had come down as well, and the Conservator was just as fascinated by the fusion of Earth-influenced melody with Cybertronian rhythm as his Sidhe bard was.

Flareup came over to Milestrina and bowed deeply. "Elder Conservator, would you consider sitting in?"

"Let me listen for another set or two. I'm still getting a feel for that scale. Do you have an explanation for which tones were chosen?"

After a short search, Flareup gave her the address of a music theory web site. "In this society, the most commonly used scale is the chromatic. This link gives you a sound file with the pitch for A440, the reference point for that scale. After that, all of the intervals – the differences between pitch – are described by fairly simple math."

"Oh! Yes! I see now. Thank you."

Diarwen listened to that explanation, and smiled. In time, she would introduce the Elder Conservator to folk melodies of her people, next to the early church-approved modes, and then to the keys that replaced them. She'd talk to Jazz about introducing Milestrina to the earliest of musics, that from Africa, surviving there still.

Yes, here she had found a definite kindred spirit. She broached the topic with the Elder Conservator.

Optimus saw Prowl and Jazz chatting with Drift between sets. When Drift excused himself and Jazz went back up to the drum machine to start his next set, the Prime left the Sidhe and the Conservator to a conversation he was finding increasingly difficult to follow.

His 2iC looked up as he approached and sent respectful glyphs of greeting and invitation. Optimus sat across from him, and Excellion raised the bench to a comfortable height for him. "Jazz is enjoying himself this evening."

"As am I. This is a wonderful day."

"Yes, it is," Optimus agreed.

For a moment the two officers listened to Cybertronian music, surrounded by the voices of their people speaking their language and enjoying the party.

"Prowl, now that Excellion has landed and is producing energon, what is our situation now?"

"Give him a few joor to get his production up to capacity, and there'll be just barely enough for everyone, with our individual conversions working at maximum," Prowl said. "We will still have to ration to build a strategic reserve, but no worse than we're used to: we'll all have a little more than we did before his arrival. We will have enough to bring everyone out of stasis."

"That was what I was hoping to hear."

Prowl nodded. "Our situation is not as dire as before. Now that there are so many more people, if we do need to go into stasis to save more energon, I will be able to arrange a rolling schedule so that we need shut down for only a joor or two a day. No one will have to go into stasis for days at a time as we have been doing."

Optimus was thankful for that. It was not an ideal situation for bots to lose several orn while life went on without them.

He was distracted by an excited pulse from Gaia.

::Do we get to tell this one?::

He followed her interest, and nearly laughed aloud. At last, at long last. He said, "Prowl, may I catch up with you in a few minutes to hear more? Something important has arisen, and I must attend to it."

Gaia pulsed with―was it glee?—within him, and he smiled.

Prowl nodded. "Yes, Prime, of course."

He nodded to the tactician and moved into the crowd, following armor almost as recognizable as his own. Within a few moments, he laid a hand on the mech's forearm, and said quietly, "Walk with me."

Hot Rod followed him out into the corridor. "Am I in trouble, sir? What did I do?"

Optimus stopped just outside the loudest party-noise circle, and turned to face the other. "You haven't done anything. That I know of, anyway. —Who did your youngling upgrades?"

The younger mech gathered himself together. "That was Tuneup, Prime, one of our crew's healers."

"Did he perform a standard inspection after you were reformatted into your youngling frame?"

"I don't remember, but no one ever said that he didn't."

Optimus studied the young mech whose world he was about to turn upside-down, and sighed for the old caste system. Hot Rod, a Wrecker, would never have been allowed to fulfill the destiny he might be meant for under that system: Wreckers were obstinately working-class. Of course Tuneup hadn't shared what he had found. Most healers wouldn't; a possible Prime from a Wrecker clan was simply…off the radar. "What do you know about the Matrix of Leadership?"

"I remember our priest talking about Prima and the Matrix, but…I'm not sure I understand what any of this has to do with..."

"Prima and the rest of the original Primes pursued the Fallen here to Earth, and sacrificed themselves to hide the Matrix in order to prevent him from using it to harvest Earth's star. Two and a half Earth years ago, it was recovered, and I now carry it. As you probably learned from your priest, the Matrix reacts only to the presence of a Prime, and just a few moments ago, it did so to yours."

A single, strong pulse of confoundment emanated from the other's spark. "But …."

Optimus sent him a pulse of reassurance. "I had the same reaction, even though I was much younger than you when I was found to be a candidate for Elevation."

"Prime, this is crazy. I can't be a Prime. There's too much I don't know."

Optimus leaned against the wall, and smiled down at him. "Then there is much you will learn. I would like to show you my Prime glyph, because if you have it on your frame, you will recognize it. That means I will have to open my chest plates, as it's on my spark casing. That's normally a very private act..." The Prime looked up and down the corridor. "To be blunt, I'd rather it took place in a less public setting. Will you come to my office?"

Which was how Hot Rod found himself in the Prime's office, without being on the carpet for anything…that he knew of, anyway.

The older mech stood at a more-than-personal distance from the younger, and unlatched his chest plates. The unmistakable light of a spark filled the office, even through its closed casing; Prime's was white, with gold, blue, and purple flickering at the edges. "Can you see the glyph?" the Prime said. "it's right … there."

The mech followed the Prime's pointing digit, and almost glitched. It was a klik or two before he replied, "I―it's―I have it here." The smaller mech opened an armor panel on the underside of his forearm. The glyph was located on the inside of one of the main struts, and he had to extend his punch dagger to reveal it.

He looked up at Optimus, to see a gentle smile on his leader's countenance. "All potential Primes bear this glyph."

Optimus shut his chest plates, and Hot Rod felt that something noble and beautiful had been hidden from the world. Something far more beautiful than he could ever…no matter what was somehow etched into his struts. "But—what—sir, that's impossible. I'm just a Wrecker."

Optimus looked at him and saw a flustered youngling, not really ready to be more than he was: just as one Orion Pax had been, all those many vorn before. He said gently, "And I was only a data clerk, a professor's assistant, Hot Rod. Primus, it seems, is not interested in what we are, nor in the caste we come from, but rather in what we have the potential to become."

The young Wrecker looked down at his peds, up at Optimus, and then seemed to find something very interesting attached to the ends of his ankle struts again. Still staring at them, he objected, "Prime, with all due respect, I'm not a leader. All I know how to do is bust helms and drive fast. What am I supposed to do?"

"Learn," said Optimus, who was no slouch at speed or helm-busting himself. "I was a Palace youngling for twelve vorn before I was ready to become a Prime."

"I—I—all right. Tell me what to do, and I'll do it. But this still seems—are you sure this isn't some kind of an elaborate prank?" The newest Prime-candidate gulped, and added, "Sir?"

Optimus regarded him companionably. "I think you might have mistaken me for Sideswipe, Hot Rod. But no, this is no prank. Potential Primes traditionally were given no choice in becoming a Prime, whether or not that was best for them or for Cybertron. I am not going to see that happen to you. On the other hand, no young bot with a true calling from Primus should be kept from that calling because he comes from what was once regarded as a low-caste background. Those politics are now behind us. So, in time, if this is the road you are meant to follow, you will know that, and the way will open for you."

The other's fields settled a bit. "Yes, Prime."

Optimus smiled, and said, "We should go back to the party now, before everyone thinks you _are _in some kind of trouble, Hot Rod."

The young Prime candidate relaxed for the first time since Optimus had pulled him aside. "Well, it wouldn't be news if I were, sir; you can ask Drift."

Once the noise of the party surrounded them again, Optimus nodded to Hot Rod, and sent glyphs of comfort (tainted with his own great satisfaction that Cybertron had another Prime, but he wasn't willing to quell that) before moving off on his own.

Hot Rod must have been readable as confounded, or more likely as "thoroughly reprimanded," to everyone who passed him; he intercepted a few pitying smiles before Bluestreak and Flareup, chattering together a mile a minute, both raised their helms at his approach.

"Rodi, what happened?" Blue said. "One minute you're just fine, as happy as the rest of us, and the next the Prime pulls you aside and—"

"What are you in trouble for?" Flareup interrupted. This was less rude than it otherwise might have been. She was well aware that interruption was the only viable strategy to get a word in edgewise once Blue was in full spate, and his word-waters, at the moment, seemed to be rising fast.

"Trouble?—Oh, it wasn't that." Hot Rod was suddenly aware that he had no idea what to do with his servos; he seemed to have a great number of them, each one very large…. "Optimus just wanted to talk to me, that's all."

Flareup narrowed her optics at him, as Barricade approached. "You're awfully upset about it."

"He's the _Prime_. I've never had to talk to a Prime before."

"He's not that bad," said Blue. "Really, what's got your fields in a twist?"

And Hot Rod, unaware he was uttering this in the presence of the biggest gossip on base, said miserably, "I have the glyph of a potential Prime on one of my struts. He showed me his glyph, and it's the same."

"Show us," Flareup demanded.

Whereupon Hot Rod said what he would shortly come to wish he had told Blue: "No."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus greeted Excellion with a polite glyph as he and Roller approached the cityformer's entrance ramp. The massive bot replied immediately with a glyph of welcome and opened his hatch.

One of the humans was working beside it, installing something at a comfortable height for the organics.

"Good morning, Sergeant."

"Good morning, Prime!" The young woman straightened. "How may I help you, sir?"

"What are you working on?"

"We're supplying Excellion with an RFID reader, sir, to pick up on the chips in our ID badges. It's the closest we can come to automatically sending an ID glyph like you do, so we don't have to just, y'know, barge in. He says it won't be any trouble to integrate the sensor."

Excellion's voice issued from another new addition, a speaker near the hatch. "This is going to work very well, Prime. I can welcome individual humans aboard as easily as individual bots. And their work party got all that grit out of my flight deck hatch mechanism, as well—Perceptor was the only one who could fit, before, and he wasn't strong enough to pull it all out."

Optimus smiled, happy that the cityformer and the humans were getting along well. "Glad to hear that's resolved for you.—Carry on, and thank you, Sergeant."

"Yes, sir. You're welcome."

Optimus said, "Excellion, I would like to introduce Roller."

The shipformer replied, "Hello, Roller. Thank you for coming today."

Excellion was preparing for a long stay in energon-saving mode. Ordinarily this would have meant spending most of his time inhabiting his remote while much of his frame was powered down. However, with his remote severely damaged during the earlier raid by Strika's seekers, and now on a table in Wheeljack's lab awaiting materials for repairs, Excellion was going to be confined to the computers in his command and control center. That meant that with much of his frame feeling either numb or non-existent, his interaction with other mecha would be severely limited.

Optimus had a temporary solution. He would allow Excellion to inhabit Roller for a joor or so a day, times when the little remote would ordinarily have been neglected while Prime attended to his duties.

The very idea, however, had left Roller fearful and confused. Now they had come to Excellion so that Roller could meet the cityformer face-to-face; Optimus hoped that once Roller had some knowledge of Excellion as a person, the cityformer himself might persuade the once-drone to help him, where Optimus could not.

Optimus led the way to C-n-C, where Drift greeted them, then returned to the work he was doing while hardlined to his console.

Excellion said to Roller, "Welcome, Optimus. I'm glad to meet you, Roller."

Roller was not quite enough of a person to watch his own peds as he kicked mulishly at the floor, nor did he have peds per se, instead using his rollers to navigate. Therefore he did neither. But he also made no reply, nor did he make "optic" contact with the broad face on Excellion's display monitor.

Optimus said patiently, "I know you are scared, Roller, but it would still be polite to thank Excellion for his welcome."

"'Kew," Roller muttered, still not making optical contact.

The two elder bots in the room exchanged optics. Then Optimus sent Excellion a ping.

Excellion replied, ::Are you sure you have time?::

::All the time Roller needs.::

::Very well.:: Excellion said aloud, "I understand that you like to play strateka, Roller. Shall we have a game?"

Roller, surprised, glanced up at him. "Can?" he asked Optimus.

"You may make whatever decision you like, Roller," Optimus said calmly.

Roller opted for a game of strateka, the simplified sparklings' version played by the Tiny Trine and the very youngest of the Cybertronians newly landed (after Excellion got a hasty ping from Optimus that this was Roller's definition of strateka). The little remote took the first three games, showing no sign at all of losing his enjoyment as Excellion carefully made each game more difficult for him to win.

The cityformer took the fourth, but gave Roller a victory he had to fight for in the next.

Optimus pinged Excellion, ::He's beginning to get tired, so this might be a good time to bring it up …::

Dutifully, Excellion asked, "Roller, have you thought about working with me?"

There was a very long silence, and Roller glanced quickly at Excellion, then away from the cityformer, back to the Prime, and then back to Excellion. "Don't want to," he said, almost shyly, Optimus thought. "Belong Optimus."

Excellion said, "Roller, I won't take Optimus' place as your partner. You would just be my partner as well, and my partner only for a few joor on a few days. You knew that, I think? You will never stop being Optimus' partner, but for a short time you will be mine as well. Once my own remote is repaired, you and I can still go places together, but each of us will be in our own frame."

Roller glanced at him. Excellion did not press the little mech.

Optimus said, "And I certainly want you to remain my partner, Roller. You will only be helping Excellion out for a short time on a few days, and when that time is up, on each of those days you will come back to me."

Roller said nothing. Excellion mustered all his patience, so that he would not appear to push Roller, and waited until the little remote glanced at him again. Then he said, "Roller, all I'd like to do is visit with my friends for part of the day, and I understand that there are sparklings on base who can play strateka with you, so we could do that too. I can schedule our times together when you would otherwise have nothing to do. And I promise you that if you need to return to Optimus, we will do so immediately."

"Right away?" Roller said, still doubtful.

"_Right _away," Excellion said, with a smile. "If you work with me, we can do things that you would like as well as what I like."

"Shooting range?" said Roller. "Watch sparring?"

"I don't see why not," Excellion said. "Would you like to try a short trip today, just to see how it feels?"

Roller's optics swiveled toward Optimus. "Come back?"

"Always," Optimus confirmed. He sent glyphs of love and reassurance, adding, "In fact, this time I will come with you."

"That's a good idea," Excellion added. "Roller, I will not prevent you from leaving if you wish to return to Optimus. Ever."

Roller considered. "All right," he said finally, but still did not sound enthused.

"Are you ready to come over here and open this port access?" Excellion blinked a light on a communications console.

Roller hesitated, glancing again at Optimus, but then did so. "Hardline now?"

"Yes, please."

"I will hardline to you as well," Optimus told Roller, and did so, to Roller's relief.

But Optimus' action was not motivated primarily by Roller's comfort; the little mech had the same Prime-level firewalls and other defenses as Optimus himself did, many of them one-of-a-kind black ice that Jazz had designed, and that no one except he and the Prime himself knew about. Optimus had to allow Excellion specific permissions before the cityformer could establish so much as a handshake with Roller.

Also, he wanted to be in the loop with them both to reassure Roller that this was only a temporary arrangement—and to assure himself that Excellion would be a reliable remote-sitter.

Given what Diarwen had said about Roller learning from him while he inhabited the small mech, and Roller developing a stronger personality of his own as a result, Optimus hoped that Roller would benefit from the arrangement as much as Excellion.

Roller might well have begun as Optimus' remote, but he needed to learn from others as much as from Optimus…well, not as much, Optimus thought. That wasn't possible, given their history. But if he could do this for Excellion, it would provide a second point of view to the little once-remote.

And if he never had a sparkling, Optimus mused, raising Roller was as close as he would come.

Roller said, "Ready. Where go?"

Relief flashed across Excellion's monitor before he said, "I think this first time should be somewhere you want to go, Roller. How about a game or two of strateka with the Tiny Trine?"

Roller said, "Okay.—Coming?" he added to Optimus, who shared a smile with Excellion, and decided he would have a conversation with Barricade, whom he wished he knew better, while strateka was in progress.

(End Part 8)


	9. Chapter 9

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Nine

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The city of Merida was the largest in the Yucatan, with a little over a million residents. According to the information that Bumblebee found on the internet during a particularly long and boring stretch of road, it was the city of longest continual occupation in the Americas; the Mayans had already been there 500 years when Europeans arrived. The article said that Mayan was the first language of a large percentage of the people, and that the Spanish spoken there and the food they ate were different from the rest of Mexico, due to the strong Mayan influence.

Bee could no longer spare the extra processing time to web surf as they neared the city and the traffic increased. It took only a small amount of his processing ability to move safely along a quiet stretch of road, watch out for hazards, and follow the conversation of his passengers, but when he shared that road with a lot of other, unpredictable human travelers, he had to devote much more of his attention to keeping track of all of them.

He agreed with the human drivers' opinion of crowded roads: driving in traffic was nerve-wracking, because you never knew precisely what the guy in the next lane might do.

A few judicious applications of his brakes and his horn saw them safely into the city, however. Simmons directed him to a downtown area where an unassuming building housed several businesses—a tour guide, a town car rental concern, a travel agent, a photography studio, a computer repair service, a doctor's office and an insurance agency. All of these businesses were perfectly legitimate, offering the services that they said they did. They were also a front for the CIA, which would be a surprise to most of the employees.

The spies there kept an eye on Cuba, much less a concern now than in the Cold War years. They also kept tabs on the drug wars, though the Yucatan was not the front line of that battle. And they looked for those elusive groups of Islamic terrorists who were training here so that they might pretend to be Mexican before infiltrating the United States.

So far, no agent had found more than a very good tan. That duty did require the occasional expedition into the jungle to search among the spectacular ruins and comb the gorgeous beaches for suspicious recent immigrants from the Middle East. Curiously, it was not difficult to find volunteers.

The station chief was an older man named Gabriel Santos. He and Simmons were acquainted, the intelligence community being small enough that most high ranking members crossed paths sooner or later. But their assignments had differed enough that they were only acquaintances.

"Welcome to Merida."

"Thank you."

"How can I be of assistance?"

"Is this room secure?"

"We sweep it every morning."

"Have you heard anything about these guys?" Simmons gave him a copy of the photo of Buzzsaw and Rumble.

"_Madre __de __Dios_! What are those—NBEs?"

"We don't call them that anymore. They're from the planet Cybertron, so they're Cybertronians—but, yeah, that's what they are. I'm looking for these two."

Santos' expression changed from one of surprise to concentration as he examined the photo with an analyst's eye. "It's local...but you know that, of course. I haven't heard anything specific about them, but there is a rumor floating around that may concern them: one of the cartels has obtained something big, and they intend to sell it to the highest bidder. Illegal arms dealers have heard this rumor, too. Some of their known operatives have been seen here in Merida, and in Cancun as well."

"Oy. This keeps getting better and better."

"I don't see anything in this picture to help pinpoint its location, though."

"If we can get close enough, we might be able to detect them," Simmons said. "Any idea when this sale is supposed to go down?"

"A week, maybe ten days. The word has to get around. You can't just pick up a phone and make a sales pitch to these guys' secretaries. They need time to vet the offer and send someone to check out the merchandise."

"Got anyone who can pass himself off as a buyer?"

Santos shook his head. "No. I had an agent working himself into place, but his cover got blown and we were lucky to get him out in one piece."

"_Mierda_. I guess we'll have to do this the hard way then," Figueroa replied.

"What do you have on the arms dealers' reps who have been nosing around?" Simmons asked.

"Illyana Jacobova was seen in Cancun three days ago, and yesterday, one of my operatives snapped these." He took a file jacket from his desk drawer, and extracted two pictures. "Looks like Abu Assad to me."

Simmons looked at the photos. "Yeah, it looks like him, but he's dead."

"That's what I thought," Santos said.

"That's what I _know_," Simmons told him. "That's either his ghost, or someone with a really strong family resemblance. I'll take door number two, because there are a bunch of them and the drone strike didn't get 'em all."

"If you end up in the same square mile as the brother of Abu Assad, don't make me arrange a clean-up team."

"Understood," Simmons said, carefully making no promises. It would be better all around if the Jordanian arms broker simply disappeared without a trace. Arranging that was not a part of Simmons' mission, and Bumblebee would probably throw a rod or something if Simmons took care of business—though the agent doubted Fig would have too many objections. Unless an absolutely perfect opportunity presented itself, he would leave Abu Assad's successor to someone who had direct orders to deal with the man.

The auction, Simmons was fairly sure, was going to be held somewhere in the Yucatan, but they were no nearer a specific location. At that, they were assuming that the symbiotes were the reason for the auction, though Simmons thought the assumption a pretty safe one.

Santos took back the photos. "Good luck, Simmons. The code word this week is _Quetzal_. It's good until midnight on Saturday. Give me a call if you're still on the job then, and I'll arrange a meeting to get you next week's code word."

"Thanks, Santos."

"Those two don't look as scary as the Decepticons we've seen on the news."

"Appearances can be deceiving, but better them than some of the big ones, that's for sure. Against this size, you've got a chance with your sidearm."

Santos blinked, not having previously considered that the wounded man in front of him might have faced a Decepticon with a sidearm, and lived to tell about it. "Good hunting. If you need a place to eat, try Toquega's cart; he's got five of 'em in the area. The first of 'em is in a little tiny town near the coast. You'll have to ignore the family histrionics, but the food's good." He shook Simmons' hand. "_Hasta __luego__._"

"_Hasta __luego__._"

Simmons and Figueroa met Bumblebee outside, and the three began their search for two needles in a haystack. Thanks to the information they received from Santos, they knew time was short, and getting shorter: they had no way to know how much of it they had before the symbionts were auctioned off and taken halfway around the world.

"Bee, can you get you get me a secure line to Director Mearing, please?"

The scout did so, and soon Charlotte came on the line. "Do you have some news for me?"

"The bad kind. According to local control, one of the cartels is planning to auction something off, and we've got arms dealers sniffing around. Three guesses what's up for sale."

"That complicates things. Under no circumstances can they be allowed to end up in the hands of our enemies. One of them would work for whoever held the other at gunpoint."

"Understood." If Simmons couldn't extract them, he would have to terminate them. And, he suspected, that would be the most merciful thing to do if he couldn't get them out.

Granted, they'd been on opposite sides of the war, but that really didn't matter any more. The two small mecha would never be anything more than items bought at auction to their new masters. If they were lucky, they would rise to the status that a dog or a horse held with these people. That meant they would be supported only so long as they could contribute, and ruthlessly sold on or terminated if they could not.

"I'll talk to you tonight unless you have something to report sooner," Mearing said.

"All right. Talk to you then."

The flood of traffic carried them out of Merida, and Bumblebee began scanning, concentrating on that and his driving. Fig and Simmons fell silent as well. They all knew the score, so there was nothing much to talk about.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mission City Base)

Roadbuster narrowed his optics at Hot Rod. "You gettin' too good to get out here an' work with us, mechling?"

The young Wrecker had been late to a shift for the second day in a row. Hot Rod's cooling circulation wasn't adequate for his cheekplates' needs for a moment; he "blushed."

"No! I—it's just—"

Leadfoot grinned at the discomfited Hot Rod. "It's just," he amplified to Roadbuster, "that Rodi's got th' mark of a Elevation candidate, an' Optimus meets with him once a day to try to beat him into shape for bein' a Prime, some day."

Hot Rod, continuing his work, wished that the Earth would open wide under his peds and swallow him up. He felt all of two vorn again, and directed a glare that should have blistered Leadfoot's paint job at the unrepentant mech.

Roadbuster narrowed his optics at the secondary target. "I swear, you're as bad as a femme sparkling for the gossip, Footie. Where did you hear that?"

"The base gossip. The 'bot who knows all an' tells all."

"And that is?"

"I will not reveal my sources," Footie said primly, quoting last night's movie, _All the President's Men_.

"He means Flareup," Rodi said, eyes still on his work. "I talked about it in front of her before I knew that about her."

Roadbuster was dangerously quiet for a moment. Then he said, in a tone of voice to etch acid, "And when was you gonna tell _us_, Rodi?"

"I didn't think it would matter very much," Hot Rod mumbled.

Bulkhead arrived. "What're you doin' to Rodi?" he demanded.

"I'm gettin' him to explain hisself," Roadbuster snapped. "You knew he was a Prime candidate an' you didn't tell me?"

Steeljaw, not liking the tones of voice and body language of those around him, whined and thumped his tail assembly in the dust. _Please don't be mean to each other. Please don't._

The integration of the two branches of the Wrecker clan, those on Earth and those newly arrived on Excellion, was not going well. They weren't incompatible; there was no skullduggery afoot; they were simply long-separated. Bulkhead had had to be Rodi's clan leader for so long that reporting to a clan head about his young charge was simply not on his radar.

And, being a Wrecker, he didn't find it easy to change. Nor did Roadbuster, equally used to being _the_ clan head.

"I didn't think it was gonna matter very much for a long time," Bulkhead said, crossing his arms. "Optimus tole Rodi he was trained in the Temple for twelve vorn before he made Prime."

"For twelve vorn? Primus. Well, Rodi, since you got about sixty vorn, I make it, before you become a Prime, find a way to stop bein' late for work!"

Rodi gave Roadbuster the dirty look he so deserved for that one, Bulkhead gave him another, and they all went back to work. Except Rodi, who merely continued his.

Two days later, Roadbuster went to speak to the Prime.

Who solved the problem Roadbuster brought him with a smile. "That one is easy. Rodi and I will schedule his instruction for the end of his work day, so long as that happens at the beginning of fourth joor."

"All right," Roadbuster said, making a Note to Self to put Rodi on second joor permanently. It meant he'd have to deal with some bitching from the others, but that didn't disturb Roadbuster; then again, not much did. "I got another problem, too, boss."

"Oh?"

"It's me and Bulkhead. It ain't personal; it's just that he's been runnin' the Excellion crew for so long he's become a sept leader in his own right, an' his status is about the same as mine. Means he don't think to report to me when he should. An', y'know, he's a Wrecker. We're stubborn ta start with, so lecturin' him ain't gonna help. I was wonderin' if you had any suggestions."

Optimus was silent for a moment, eyes on his desk. Then he said carefully, "It is you who have the deeper knowledge of Wrecker culture than I do, Roadbuster. On Cybertron, would you have held physical contests to choose the leader?"

"Yeah. You get accepted into a Wrecker clan, you start out on the bottom. That's where Rodi is, right now, not because he ain't a good bot, or good at what he does, but just because there wasn't no one else he could contest against to earn the next rank."

"I see. Will you and Bulkhead have to contest against one another to settle this issue of leadership?"

"Sure enough. I mean, we might get a bit dinged up, but it'll be fun."

Optimus' fields swelled with sorrow for a moment; Roadbuster was puzzled, but had no way to know that once, he and his Lord Protector had thought that too….

"When we do that," Roadbuster said tentatively, "it's pretty much a party. I'm gonna have a little talk with Bulky tonight, an' we'll get it as straight as we can without gettin' on the mat to settle it. But that's somethin' we gotta do. I don't suppose you have any idea when we might plan it?"

"Unfortunately not. Unless we find and capture Soundwave's base, or the humans have a breakthrough in creating energon-making cubes, our supplies will not increase much, if at all. We were fortunate that Excellion's arrival gave us much greater capacity, but it also gave us many more to provide for."

"I'd like ta have five klicks alone with that bot. Soundwave, I mean, not Excellion."

"I would too. At present I am divided between forbidding the humans to watch the result and compelling them to do so."

Roadbuster grinned, and. "An' I know with Jazz here I'd need ta take a number. Still, a Wrecker's gotta have a dream." He shifted in his chair. "But Optimus…if I just tell the guys that's what we're gonna do, say, an orn beforehand, we'll all put a little of our daily rations aside for it."

"I cannot permit you to do that," Optimus said firmly. "We simply do not have the luxury of allowing any combat-capable mechs to further short their rations. If you will give me two orns' notice, I can keep back a portion of my own rations."

Roadbuster ruthlessly quelled the uprush of emotion that followed the Prime's statement. _Why, he's just like one'a us! An' I wouldn't let him do that anyway. He's already too fined-down from skippin' rations every time __anybot else needs extra. _"Okay, Prime. But I gotta turn you down on shortin' yourself. Wreckers for Wreckers, ya know?"

They talked a little more, of nothing momentous. Then Roadbuster bid the Prime farewell, and sought out Wheeljack.

"Roadbuster!" the scientist said happily, turning from something that bubbled with equal glee in a large retort. "Come in, sit down! How have you been? I've barely seen you since Excellion landed, you've been so busy."

The two Wreckers embraced, then stepped apart. "Doin' good, Jack. You?"

"Oh, very well indeed. What can I help you with today?" The scientist turned from him to douse the flame under the retort; it was almost the beginning of third joor, and time to bask in the sun.

'It's Optimus. An' I don't know if you _can _help me, Jack. Anybody else noticed how…thin…his fields're gettin'? He's a warbuild, an' o' course he's the biggest one we got. I don't think he's gettin' enough energon."

The scientist looked at him closely. "I don't think so either. There's nothing I can do directly," the scientist grinned, "but I'll tell you what I _can_ do: tell Ratchet."

Roadbuster grinned. "Jack, I sure do thank you. That takes a load off my mind."

"Mine too," Jack said. "Come on, let's go get some sun."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Later that day, at the beginning of fourth joor in fact, Roadbuster knocked on Bulkhead's door.

"Roadbuster?" Bulkhead said, opening the door and stepping aside in invitation. "Been expectin' you. C'mon in."

The two bots exchanged the Wreckers' secret grip, and then Bulkhead waved Roadbuster to a seat, taking another himself. Both faced the windows in the bot's quarters within Excellion's residential area, and gave a view of a steep-sided rocky draw which, Bulkhead had been told, could channel a raging torrent when the weather conditions were right.

"We got to talk," Roadbuster said.

Bulkhead nodded. "More'n that, we got to fight. But it ain't the wisest thing ta do while we're so short on energon. So wadda we gonna do about that?"

Roadbuster had spent the afternoon in the sun, thinking about this very problem. He had seen that if he and Bulkhead, both sparked Wreckers, did not reach an agreement on how to integrate their septs, both would begin to suffer programming conflicts; Ratchet confirmed this. Roadbuster shared the knowledge with Bulkhead.

Who stared out his window for a good two minutes, which, for a Cybertronian, is a lot of processing time. Then he said, very carefully, "What if we decide right now to behave like we was two separate septs, equal in rank?"

The very notion set Roadbuster's dentae on edge. But he stifled this reaction and said, with equal care, "Okay. Then what?"

"Then maybe you run your sept, an' I run my sept. Maybe we meet…once every couple solar rotations? I dunno, we'll have to figure that out. We talk about what each of us is doin', an' if either of us has somethin' that affects th' clan as a whole, we reach agreement on it."

"An' if we can't?"

"Then maybe," Bulkhead said slowly, "we take it to th' Prime, an' he casts th' decidin' vote."

That set both their dentae on edge. To them, Wreckers were Wreckers, and _no_bot else was a Wrecker...not even the Prime.

Roadbuster said, after a lot of thought, "I hate th' thought o' that, but it might work 'zackly because o' that. We'd both try pretty hard to keep outsiders…out."

Bulkhead had more in his cube, though. "You don't haveta go to th' management meetin's, do ya?"

"What? No! Not since Excellion's pad got finished! Management meetin's is for managers, Bulk, an' I'm a workin' bot!"

Bulkhead visibly relaxed, cables loosening all over his frame. "Okay, then. I guess if we gotta do this, we gotta."

"If you got other ideas, I'm willin' to listen."

But Bulkhead shook his helm. "Look. Why ain't we just fightin' anyway? You know, savin' up rations an' then goin' at it?"

Roadbuster told him why Optimus had forbidden it, and when he finished, Bulkhead was gaping at him.

"But that's just like us! He thinks like a Wrecker!"

"Yeah, he does."

"Well then." Bulkhead said thoughtfully, "It prob'ly won't be so bad goin' to him after all, if we gotta. But," he said with a grin at Roadbuster, "'m sure lookin' forward to pounding the chrome right outta your plating."

Roadbuster returned the grin. "Funny," he said, "I was thinkin' the same thing about you."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(New Darkmount)

Borealis paced the upper battlements of Strika's keep in extreme agitation. Dreadwing and Skyquake's fields settled over her, heavy, calming her in spite of herself.

They weren't enough to quell her completely, however, and she'd been extraordinarily upset to begin with. Borealis shook her helm, and shouted, "This is wrong! We are _trine_. If I were going to clutch this soon, it should be with you, and _only_ with you!"

Skyquake said, "We are too few to keep to the old ways. This is your duty."

"Strika is too large for me to bear her sparklings—she's even bigger than the two of you! _And_ she's a triple changer! Do you want our heirs to be part groundling? And why do _I_ have to carry all of them? It's custom for each member of a trine to carry one of the hatchlings. I could die of this!"

"No, you won't. There will be damage but it can be repaired. We ask you to do this to restore the position of our house, Borealis. As consort to the Winglord, you will no longer be casteless, and the rest of us will be reinstated with you. In the long run, you will benefit from that. Your hatchlings will follow her one day. With our next kindling, we'll follow the old customs to the letter. Those sparklings, and the trines that they found, will be our heirs."

"Which one of you is going to do this with her and me, and who is she going to replace?_"_

Both of the larger seekers winced in spite of themselves. It normally required all three sparks of a trine for seekers to kindle hatchlings. To kindle with an outsider, a trine would have to take that outsider to their berth, and when the time came, one of them would have to step back and let the fourth take his place in the three-way sparkmerge that would kindle new sparks. Yet that trine member would have to be present in order for the other two to be able to merge with the outsider at all.

Taking an outsider to berth for clutching was not unheard of among seekers. The diversity that resulted had allowed them to adapt to changing conditions over the vorn.

It was, however, completely unheard of for a first clutch. That first clutch was, should be, the trine's heirs: so it had always been.

Borealis hated the whole idea. Despised Strika, loathed the very thought of intimacy with her, feared that the damage she sustained from carrying and bearing _three _overlarge sparklings would be permanent, and viewed the necessary pain of repairing it (if that were possible) with great trepidation.

But she could not deny that kindling these outsider sparklings was, as Skyquake had reminded her, her duty to her house: and the only way to redeem that house from its casteless status.

So she ignored the quailing of her very spark, and said, resigned, "If we're going to do this, let's get it over with. I want it behind me."

Her trinemates, she sensed, were no more comfortable with the idea than she was herself. If their unease was cold comfort, it was the only comfort to be had: Borealis took it.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mission City Base)

Readying to begin her Circle teachings, Diarwen looked up as Optimus said, "It looks as though Evanon has brought friends."

It was only about five-thirty in the morning, when even those who enjoyed their studies sometimes grumbled about having to be up and about at such a miserable hour.

It was still too dark to see the children approaching, sunrise being forty-five minutes or so away. Optimus, though, didn't rely solely on the visible spectrum; Diarwen smiled. "I wonder who. Well, I will teach them to fight, and to meditate, but I will not teach them the Craft unless their parents approve."

She had been expecting perhaps Junior Epps, but as well as Evanon and the oldest Epps boy, she saw more people coming up the path—Jack Darby, Nakadai Miko, and little Raf Esquivel. Several young Cybertronians were with them as well.

"Evanon...?"

Her apprentice bowed, looking a bit nervous. "They were curious, milady, and my poor attempts at explanation only made them more so. I hope I have done nothing wrong by allowing them to come with me."

"Not at all. Welcome, all of you. Robert. Jack, Raf, Miko-chan. Please, introduce your friends."

Miko bowed low and jumped into speech. "This is my friend Bluestreak, and his friend Hot Rod. Obsidian and Sapphire are brother and sister."

"It is pleasant to meet you," Obsidian said.

Diarwen smiled. "Welcome to all of you. What is it that you wish to know?"

The boldest of the young people, Miko asked, "What is it that all of you are doing up here?"

"We are learning from one another. This is a Circle. Do you know what I mean by that?" She seated herself on the ground, and with a gesture invited the others to do so. Obsidian and Sapphire were the last to lower themselves to the earth.

It was cold, in the middle forties. Diarwen took off her coat and passed it to young Raf Esquivel, who wore shorts, and was already shivering. Beside her, she felt Optimus channel a little heat into his plating. Not much, as they were still short on energon.

Jack said, "My mother says you're Wiccans, and it's a religious thing. I told the others, I didn't know if it was a good thing to intrude...?"

"It is no intrusion. Wiccan belief coincides with my own when it says that if the student is ready, the teacher will be found. I am not Wiccan, as you might guess from that. Wicca is one Pagan tradition among many—my own tradition is a different one, though I must admit it is very similar. And your mother is right—religion has more than a little to do with it, though we do not all profess same faith. Optimus, as you know, is the High Priest of Primus. Prowl follows a path to Enlightenment not unlike Buddhism's, or Taoism's, among humans."

Bobby Jr. said, "But if you follow different faiths, how do you work together? Don't you get into arguments?"

_Ah_, thought Diarwen,_ the meat of the matter. _"We do not. We sit at the point where our separate paths lead to Truth, and there our faiths intersect. We find commonalities, and learn respect for each other's traditions. I will happily welcome you, once your elders formally allow me to teach you."

Jack said, "Mom knows I'm here, she says it's OK with her if it's OK with you."

Raf said, "My _abuelita_—Tio Jorje's mother—is a _curandera_, a _yerbera_—that is, a shaman with a great knowledge of healing herbs. Tio Jorje and Tia Stefania have wanted me to learn that as well, but—I don't know, I've always been more interested in science and math. I'm willing to try, though."

Diarwen rubbed her hands up and down her sweatered arms; the bots, taking Optimus' cue, began emitting a little heat, for the comfort of the humans and the Sidhe. She said to Raf, "I have had to learn herbalism in order to tend to my own health. I will be glad to pass on to you what I have learned. Botany is a science, is it not?"

"Yes, it is."

"Then perhaps you will be the first to bridge the gap between the natural science of botany, and the magical herbology of your _abuelita's_ traditions. Robert?"

Bobby Epps' eldest son frowned. "Well, I don't know that I want to change religions. Do I have to?"

"Certainly not, no! Before you begin a study of magic, though, you should consult with your parents and perhaps with the chaplain as well, and study your scriptures, to gain a complete understanding of precisely what your faith allows and forbids. Some Christian sects allow no magic at all. Others permit magic so long as it does not include involvement with spirits, either dark ones, or those of the dead, disturbing whose rest is forbidden. Some forbid astrology. All require that, when you honor Spirit, you honor the God, the saints and the angels of your own tradition. It will be your responsibility to learn and honor the restrictions of your own faith, as we all must."

The boy seemed less tense when she finished. "I see, I think. Thank you, Diarwen."

She nodded. "Miko-chan?"

"I'm curious about magic. I mean, I've seen it work. I didn't know it was a religion. Umm, no disrespect intended."

"None taken. But you, personally, are not religious."

"No, Diarwen-_sensei_. I just want to be a better fighter."

"Then you have come to the right place."

"_Hai, Sensei_."

Diarwen looked up at the four young Cybertronians. Hot Rod stood out among them, and not only for his wild flame-patterned paint job. Untested and untried, he still had the look of a leader about him. "What is it that you young people would like to know?"

The young Prime-candidate said, "I was just curious about what you do up here. A combination of religious teaching and mixed martial arts sounds a lot like what Drift does, if you don't mind me saying so."

Diarwen smiled. "I do not mind at all. I cannot comment on your observation, though, since I have met Drift only in passing. Tell me, among your people does he not bear the title of Knight?"

"Yes. He says that he is a Knight of Light, but I haven't pursued that with him."

Optimus remained silent. He had a little information about the Knights, whose sole survivor was Drift…at least the only one Optimus himself now knew of. But that little was very little, and some of it was extraordinarily difficult to get into English.

Diarwen continued, "I bear that title myself—Knight, though not, of course, Knight of Light. It may be that our practices are quite similar. Your curiosity is welcome—it is a good thing for the young to be curious. Optimus, tell me, to whom should I look for permission to teach these young ones, if they wish to learn?"

"Hot Rod is a Wrecker, so he would need Roadbuster's permission. Bluestreak is Praxian. Have you any living cohort, mechling?"

Bluestreak's fields washed with sadness. "No, Prime. Obsidian and Sapphire are the only members of their cohort here as well."

Optimus was shocked. "Have you no Guardians?"

"Not formally, Prime. Aboard Excellion, we didn't really stand on ceremony. Every adult looked out for all of us younglings who didn't have families, Milestrina most often. Drift is our captain, so I guess he's kinda our Guardian, maybe. I don't know who else it could be."

"One moment," Optimus excused himself, then pinged Drift. ::Are you willing to stand as Guardian to the younglings on your crew?::

::I don't have Guardian bonds with them, if that's what you're asking, sir.::

::Not exactly. Bluestreak, Obsidian and Sapphire would like to learn from Diarwen, but she will not teach minors without the permission of their guardian. I suspect this will not be the only occasion in which they need the permission of a legal guardian to do things on this planet, until they are of age—but they are too old to have foster parents.::

::I suppose, as their captain, that would fall to me. What is it they want Diarwen to teach them?::

::Hot Rod commented that her teaching methods resemble yours, in that she teaches a combination of religious studies and mixed martial arts—though, of course, hers is a different religion.::

::It's fine with me, Prime, as long as they aren't pestering Diarwen.::

::They've been perfectly well-behaved.::

::Then for Primus' sake yes, let them stay—at least Hot Rod. What did Roadbuster say?::

::I have not asked him yet.::

::Well, tell him I said I'm fine with anything that gets Rodi to behave!:: The accompanying glyphs conveyed that the Knight was mostly joking, but still affectionately exasperated with his 3-i-C.

Optimus could imagine how the strong will that characterized potential Primes would be "enhanced," if that was the word for it, by a Wrecker-clan upbringing.

Drift went on. ::I'm glad to see Obsidian and Sapphire taking an interest, too. They've been through alot, over and above what a lot of the war orphans survived. I don't know if their parents ever hit them, but it wouldn't surprise me to find out that they had. Perceptor couldn't tell me, doctor-patient confidentiality. I definitely heard some nasty, hurtful verbal abuse, the kind of really cruel, cutting remarks that younglings take to spark. Once I heard Sunstone tell Sapphire she was good for nothing but a pleasure bot, right in front of a bunch of other mecha, apparently without much in the way of provocation. The kids couldn't run away from Sunstone fast enough when I decided to maroon him.::

::I will inform Diarwen of their history. We have a human healer here, Dr. Boggs, who deals with what we would call processing issues, and she specializes in treating young people. It may be worthwhile having them speak to her.::

::That would be a good idea. Perceptor's said a couple of times that he wished we had someone like Smokescreen to talk to a lot of our people. Milestrina's a good counselor, but she's not a professional—she says so herself. I'll ask Dr. Boggs if she can see them, and some of the others too. Bluestreak also might benefit from seeing her. He survived the last battle of Praxus, and was sent to Tyger Pax because it was thought to be safe from the war. Then he had to fight his way out of that mess.::

Optimus sent a rather rough glyph.

::That's what I said, sir.::

::Thank you, Drift. That will be all for now.::

::Yes, Prime. Good joor.::

Optimus pinged Roadbuster to get permission for Hot Rod to join the class.

::Oh _Pit_ yes. That kid—any kinda discipline's gonna be good for that one,:: Roadbuster sent, the same combination of affection and exasperation that Drift had expressed coming through quite clearly. ::If he don't learn the discipline, he won't be able to do either one, and Rodi ain't inclined toward failure.::

Optimus sent a chuckle and a thanks through the connection, and turned to Diarwen. "Both Roadbuster and Drift give their permission, milady."

Diarwen smiled. "Very well. Let us begin by determining what you already know. Prowl, have you finished your katas?"

"I have, Lady Diarwen."

"Then, may I ask you to join us? We have new students. I believe that you are already acquainted with Jack, Robert Junior, Rafael, and Miko-chan?"

"In passing, yes. Welcome to our Circle."

Jack replied, "Thank you, sir."

"The younglings here are Obsidian and his sister Sapphire, Hot Rod, and I believe you know Bluestreak. Would you consider taking on their martial arts training?"

"Yes." The ninja eyed the group, and was it only Optimus who saw Jazz quietly watching his mate? "Everyone has a certain level of ability; that can always be improved with training. But not everyone has the will to commit to dedicated training. I will teach you as long as you demonstrate, by behaving in class and applying yourself to your studies, that you are willing to learn."

They all chorused, "Yes, Prowl!"

Leaving the younglings in Prowl's capable servos, Diarwen told the four human teens, "We will begin by assessing your level of skill. Robert, I have seen you studying with your father, and I do not wish to interfere if he is already your sensei."

But Bobby Jr. shook his head. "He said he isn't. He's taught me a few things but he says that's different from being a martial arts master."

"Indeed, it is, and he shows great wisdom and respect by knowing that difference. Still, one can learn a great deal by being taught a few things here and there. Evanon, if you would indulge us, I would like to see you and Robert spar. No contact at least at first, until I've had a better chance to evaluate you. The rest of you, sit and watch. You will learn much by observing as your classmates spar, so please pay attention."

"Practice blades, or bare hands, milady?" Evanon asked.

"Bare hands for now. Let us see how your basic skills are, Robert, before we begin blade training."

Both boys bowed to her, then to each other, and Diarwen told them to begin.

She missed her own workout, since she was busy evaluating her new students and starting them on their first lessons. Jack's mother had never been able to afford for him to play school team sports, but he was a very active, outdoorsy kid, and having grown up a military brat, he knew enough martial arts that he didn't have to worry about the town bullies. She made sure he had the technique of the beginner's form right, then let him go with Evanon and Junior.

Miko had been studying karate and aikido since she was small, and at home in Japan, she had been on the naginata team in school. Diarwen sent her to join the boys, even though they were a little older. Evanon would challenge her, and she could help teach the other two.

Raf was small, even for his age. He was a stereotypical nerd, long unruly brown hair that got in his eyes, which were hidden behind a big pair of glasses, dressed in gym clothes that hadn't seen much use – and Diarwen's jacket, which hung to his knobbly bare knees. Normally, he wore khakis and button-down plaid shirts, or a white dress shirt and a sweater if he was going to be in an air conditioned room all day.

Diarwen would not have been surprised if he was as smart as any two or three of the rest of them put together, and she did not exclude herself or the bots. He understood Cybertronian fluently and translated on the fly. She had seen him and Bee carrying on a curious conversation, Bee broadcasting Cybertronian and Rafael casually answering in English.

She made a mental note to draft Raf for D'andre's project.

"Have you had the self-defense course that the base provides for dependents, Raf?"

"No, Dr. Parker said I was big enough for the last one, but I fell out of a tree at my abuelita's house and hurt my ankle, so I couldn't."

"That does not sound like much fun. Why did you fall out of a tree?"

"I was trying to get a coconut to throw at my cousin," he admitted sheepishly.

_Little boys,_ Diarwen thought, suppressing a giggle. "And, is your ankle all right now? And how about your cousin?"

"My ankle is fine, ma'am. I missed my cousin."

"A good thing, I think. Coconuts are heavy.—All right, I am going to teach you a somewhat different version of the first form than the one I showed Jack. He has almost his full growth and will be learning sword fighting soon. We do not know yet what weapons will be best suited for you when you are older, so the forms I am going to teach you will lend themselves more to unarmed styles and small blades such as a knife or short sword. If you choose to do so when you are older, we will add the bladed styles."

The boy's eyes had begun to shine. Diarwen took a moment to smile at him and then continued, "You are like me, small and light and quick. That lends itself to a different style than the one Jack and Miko study. We are going to concentrate on how to avoid being hit, how to redirect opponents' attacks instead of blocking them by use of main strength, and how to circumvent your opponents' defenses in order to succeed in your own attacks. But, for a few years yet, your focus if you are attacked will be to avoid hostilities in the first place, to disarm and evade your attacker if that is not possible, and if neither of those works, to compromise his ability to chase you so that you may escape unharmed."

Raf frowned. "I might be little, but I'm no coward."

"I am not suggesting cowardice, Raf. If a fight is truly unavoidable, I will give you the techniques to triumph over a larger aggressor. But the first thing you must remember is to fight smart. Fight on your terms. And, in a situation from which honor or circumstance allows no retreat, then fight to win as swiftly as possible."

The boy frowned. "All right. Not that I want to do this, but just theoretically, could I learn to beat Jack in a fight? He's twice my size!"

"Yes, it is quite possible. Now, allow me to say this: your disadvantage is not only that he is bigger than you, but that he is bigger than you _because_ _he is older_. You are still growing into your body in a way that Jack has nearly finished doing; he is close to what will be his adult height. You, on the other hand, have to adapt to a body whose center of gravity changes every day—sometimes I think from morning till afternoon! You have doubtlessly heard your aunt remark on how quickly you outgrow your clothing. If your ankles are showing beneath your trouser legs, then you must adapt to having legs that are suddenly a hand's width longer. It is for this reason that older teens are more graceful and balanced than young teenagers such as yourself, and grace and balance are very important to a warrior."

"Yeah, I heard Tia describe me as 'gangly' the other day."

Diarwen smiled at him. "No one, not even the doctors, quite knows how the body grows, Raf. All we know is that it grows in spurts, and sometimes some parts grow faster than others. You will learn to deal with that, but it is one of the factors that you must take into account when your opponent is older than you. You will need to practice daily in order to move confidently in the body you have that day. And I will teach you techniques specific to fighting larger opponents."

"Umm—how much larger?"

"Sidhe techniques account for a target up to approximately twice a warrior's own height."

The boy giggled. Diarwen went on, "Beyond that, we do not close to hand-to-hand combat immediately with a much larger opponent if we can avoid it, not if an arrow or a spell can put our enemy on the ground first."

"But what if you _have_ to fight him?"

"Even a very large opponent is vulnerable to having his legs cut out from under him if he is fool enough to let a small opponent under his guard—and, one can always climb, either to reach a higher vantage point, or even climb the opponent himself. If you ever have the opportunity to watch NEST troops spar with the bots, you will see that done many times."

The boy's face lit up. "Yeah. I saw Tio Jorge doing that the other day with Sideswipe. It was awesome."

Diarwen smiled, and put her hands on her knees. "Then you already know that you should never despair because an opponent is much larger than yourself. They may have the advantage that greater size grants, but an advantage is not a guarantee. It is your job to read the situation accurately, and turn the battle to play to your _own_ advantage. Avoid confrontation when possible, do what you must to escape if your opponent is bent on violence, and if you must stand and fight, do so on your terms, not theirs."

Rafael thought about that. It was a completely different point of view than the "little geeks invariably get beaten up by big jocks" attitude with which he had been indoctrinated since grade school. Diarwen saw the wheels turning, and had been teaching long enough to make an educated guess about what the boy was thinking.

Sometimes Diarwen thought the most important thing she taught was not how to punch or stab, but rather self-confidence and self-esteem. A confident warrior can go into battle without panic, and panic kills by overriding common sense.

She gestured to Raf to come with her, and rose to go to the area where the bots and humans were sparring: Optimus, sitting on a stone, was watching. Once the sparring session ended, Diarwen told the newcomers, "We usually have a study and discussion time before we go back to base and start our day. Tomorrow I shall have a reading list for you. If accessing one of these books will be difficult for you, let me know and something will be arranged."

There was a ragged chorus of assent. Diarwen sat on a stone much lower than Optimus', and began, "Today's discussion is on sigils, which we have been talking about for a little while. It would be best if those of you who are new among us had the background, but all of you may e-mail me with questions." She fetched a small notebook from her pack. "I will need your e-mail addresses as well, please, though only if you are human. — To begin with, keep in mind that words have power. Especially, the names of things have power. A sigil is a method of distilling the power inherent in words and names. There are branches of magic which hold that sigils are best used if the meaning behind them is forgotten by the conscious mind."

She looked at her students for the "Aha!" in the eyes that meant she could go on with her lecture, and found something more interesting in at least one of them. "Miko, since you are taking notes, perhaps you and I could go over them after school? I will be off-shift at eight PM. Then if they are all correct, I would like to distribute them to your fellow human students." She smiled at Evanon. "We of Sidhe are trained to remember a great deal orally, but that seems to have been lost from human teaching methods here.

"You may find it interesting to note that this technique is used identically on Cybertron and on Earth. On Cybertron, the glyphs representing the identity strings of members of a cohort are combined into a sigil. This is a mainstream custom in this day and age, but Milestrina tells me that long ago these sigils were held to be very strong protective symbols, because they distilled the essence of the cohort."

"Cohort?" said Raf.

Diarwen smiled at her student, but Optimus said, "If you will walk back with me this morning, Raf, I will teach you about Cybertronian cohorts."

Diarwen nodded. "Thank you, Optimus. —On Earth, in many languages the letters making up the words of a spell, affirmation, or intention are combined in the same way, to condense its power into one symbol. Just as lighting a candle can focus the caster's intent, so can the creation of a sigil. Many practitioners of magic create a sigil from the letters of their craft name and use this sigil to identify their belongings. Such a sigil can anchor a defensive ward based on ownership. It also serves to identify the practitioner, just as a signature can. No two people will create the exact same sigil from a group of letters or glyphs, just as no two people will sign their names in exactly the same way…."

The discussion wended on for another half hour. Diarwen then blessed her students and dismissed the circle, and returned to her quarters.

(End Part 9)


	10. Chapter 10

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Eight

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Prowl sent a ping to Lennox' number, which translated to a ringing phone. The NEST commanding officer reached for it with a muttered curse. He had enough going on already, with General Morshower coming out to meet Excellion for himself. "Lennox."

"Prowl, Colonel. There is a situation among the protesters that I believe you should be aware of."

"What happened?"

"The Eastlander known as Uncle Pete apparently shot another protester in the eye with a bolt from his slingshot. There was a lot of disturbance, and arrests have been made."

"Another protester? Does the local law have it under control?"

"Yes, I believe so. The Eastlanders have absented themselves, at least temporarily, in order make bail for Uncle Pete. The sheriff has increased the number of deputies, and the situation appears to be returning to its previous state."

"OK. Can you get me the identities of the other people involved in the fight?"

"Certainly."

"Does it look like the General's motorcade will have any trouble getting through the gate?"

"No, there is no interruption to traffic on the highway at the present time."

"Thanks, Prowl. For now, let's just monitor the situation, but if it seems like the sheriff is losing control of the mob, or if they do start blocking traffic, then notify me and the OD immediately."

"Of course, Colonel."

Lennox shook his head as he hung up, and hoped the judge set a high bail. That old fart and his slingshot were a riot just waiting impatiently to happen.

In his own office, Prowl returned to monitoring the situation across the road.

Jazz leaned back and stretched until his tense, kinked shoulder cables popped back into place with a satisfying ping. He needed a good flat-out race, but it was another orn before he was due for extra rations—and he'd probably find something else to do with that, involving Prowl but not racing. "Hey, Prowler, what do you figure the odds Soundwave will try to slip a spy into that crowd of human vehicles out there?"

Prowl considered. "I think it more likely that he will come himself. He has had time to become comfortable in a pretender frame by now, and to learn how unlikely it is for such a small frame to emit enough energon vapor to set off a detector. He may be here now. I have kept facial recognition software running constantly, but without knowing who to look for, it is a long shot that it will find anything."

"He could come right onto the base," Jazz said.

"That would be considerably more difficult. Even if he were to replace base personnel, anyone acting strangely or not going where their duties require them to be would be quickly noticed, as would any odd readings from the base's sensors. Excellion, also, has allowed me to tap into the sensor arrays built into his solar collectors, which are high enough above the cliffs to give me a good vantage point on most of the base north and west of the ridge lines. The narrow strip from the south fence to the ridge is slightly more vulnerable, but more heavily patrolled as well."

"It's mah nightmare that he'll try to take out Optimus in a sneak attack. Optimus has never been as careful about an assassination attempt as Ah wish he would be."

Prowl considered possible responses. "I will mention the possibility to him in Diarwen or Ironhide's hearing. There is a greater than 95% chance that he will take reasonable precautions, or that they will be taken for him, after that."

Across the commons, Lennox received a report that General Morshower was ten minutes out. He twitched his uniform into place and inspected it for stray crumbs and blobs of mustard before he went down to the commons to meet his commanding officer. He sent a text to Optimus as well, who came over to the main hangar from his office in Building C.

The general stood on ceremony only long enough to get the formalities out of the way, including introducing his aide, then commented, "You've got a three ring circus out there."

Lennox replied, "Yes, sir. Local law enforcement has kept them on the other side of the highway, and any incidents so far have all been minor. We're monitoring the situation closely, though."

"Good, good. Anything else to report?"

"No, sir, not at the present time."

"Then I'm anxious to meet a few of these new bots."

Optimus said, "General, they are anxious to meet you as well. Now that the excitement of the landing has worn off, there are concerns about their future. I hope that you can offer them reassurances."

"Yes. I'd like to go over a few things with you and Colonel Lennox before I make a public announcement, though, in case there's anything we need to hash out at the last minute."

"In that case, may I offer you a ride up there?"

"Certainly, thank you."

Optimus transformed and opened his doors for the two officers to climb in. Once they were settled, Morshower explained, "We can integrate your fighters immediately, as reinforcements. They and their dependents will be issued green cards as soon as the paperwork is out of the way. Needless to say, the greater the number of new arrivals who are related to your soldiers, the simpler this will be. Things are a little more complicated with the civilians, because they come under the refugee program. We limit the number of refugees who can enter the country in any given year, but we do have some leeway to admit emergency cases such as this. They will be issued a work permit. After they've been here a year, they will be eligible to apply for permanent resident status and get green cards of their own. Now, the administration got Congress to agree to that on the condition that the non-combatants be confined to base under the same rules as the ex-Cons are."

Lennox objected, "They're turning my base into a resettlement camp, sir!"

Morshower nodded grimly. "The other option is to fight it out in Congress, and get their status stalled in the same gridlock that's keeping us from getting anything else done. Optimus, I don't have a crystal ball, and I can't tell you which party is going to win the election this fall. We're not even certain yet who the Republican candidate will be. I'm pretty sure that it will be Mitt Romney but anything could happen in the primaries. If there's a change of administration, your situation will change too. The President has directed me to assure you that, if he loses the election, he will see to it that you and your people will have acceptable options available to you before he leaves office."

"Please convey my thanks to him for that. Your Congress must understand that, if it is necessary to relocate my civilians, I am bound to protect them. I will keep my word to defend this planet and its people from the Decepticons, but the extent and efficiency of that effort will depend on the needs of my civilians. If I have to move Excellion to the moon or Mars, then I will have to garrison him, and that will necessarily limit the resources that I have available to your forces here."

Lennox controlled a grin with a real effort: Optimus was finally going to play hardball with those yahoos on Capitol Hill. The addition of civilians dependent on him to the mix had changed a lot of equations. They all knew what the bottom line was―Morshower could only offer them a temporary haven. But Optimus was not going to subject the future of the civilian citizens of Cybertron to the whims of an out-of-control Congress.

Optimus asked, "Do I understand you correctly that my civilians cannot leave the base unless escorted by an Autobot soldier or NEST personnel, precisely the same as the former Decepticons?"

Morshower grinned, seeing the same loopholes as the Prime did. "That's what they agreed to, Prime. As I read it, any of your people can go anywhere they want as long as they have an escort."

"I believe that we can work with that," Optimus said mildly.

Lennox agreed. "Won't be a problem at all, General."

"Good. Then we all understand each other. As far as I'm concerned, that fence is to keep troublemakers out, not to keep your people in. Just make sure they stay out of trouble when they're off base."

Lennox said, "Sir, we've been dealing with the two sets of twins long enough to have adequate procedures in place."

Morshower, who religiously read every report that crossed his desk with those four names anywhere on them because he needed the laugh, grinned.

"Having Prowl back as...provost marshal certainly simplifies that," Optimus added. He stopped at the foot of Excellion's ramp and waited while the two disembarked, then transformed and led the way up the ramp. "General, this is Excellion. Excellion, this is General Morshower, Colonel Lennox' commanding officer."

A holoprojector over the door showed Excellion's broad "face," and the speaker beside it said, "It is an honor to meet you, General. Would you care to come up to my command deck?"

"Yes, thank you."

Excellion's interior fascinated Morshower, and he realized that he was very likely one of the few living humans to board and examine an alien spaceship while not drugged … or whatever went on during alien abductions. He was Not Going There.

Even in city mode, Excellion was clearly meant for space, with enclosed, relatively narrow corridors rather than open-air streets. The basic color was a uniform light beige; solar conduits, much like the skylights in human buildings, channeled in bright light.

It could have been bland, but Excellion encouraged his inhabitants to decorate their living and working areas. Doorways and their surrounding wall space were brightly painted, and handmade wall hangings accented alcoves or concealed an exposed pipe here and there. The whole effect was alien, but warm and inviting.

They began to pass Cybertronians in the corridors going about their daily business. One large dark gray fellow trundling along carrying a stack of metal plates stopped to greet Optimus and look curiously at Morshower. "G'joor, Prime."

"Good joor, Hauler. General Morshower, this is Hauler, from Tyger Pax. Hauler, General Morshower is Colonel Lennox' superior, in the United States Army."

Hauler grinned and nodded. "Pleased t'meet ya, Gen'ral Morshower."

"The pleasure is mine, Hauler."

The laborer nodded to both of them, and then lugged his stack of plates onto a nearby freight lift. When it had left the floor, Optimus explained, "Hauler was once one of the best long-distance freighters in Tyger Pax, and a member of the civilian defense militia. He sustained processor damage in the fighting, and we do not have the capability to repair his injury. As a result, it takes him many times longer to process the same information as it does anyone else, human or Cybertronian, and too complex a problem—like combat, or even driving in traffic—could cause him to freeze up or glitch. Now, it is necessary to assign him carefully chosen tasks which do not demand more processing power than he can supply."

Morshower nodded. Many soldiers returning from Afghanistan and Iraq had survived brain injuries that would have killed an earlier generation. The challenges they faced back home were always on his mind. His estimation of the Cybertronians went up several notches as he realized how well they had cared for Hauler under the conditions of privation that they had faced during their long journey. They took care of their wounded soldiers, and to him, there could be little better testimony to the character of a people than that.

A little further down the corridor they passed the young green cycleformer whom he remembered Director Mearing had identified as Healer's Apprentice Moonracer during the situation room briefing. The femme transformed and nodded to Prime, greeted Morshower in a polite rush, then transformed back and dashed off as soon as she could without being rude. Late for her lessons in medbay, no doubt.

A door opened and a small, light green bot came out. He had a squeaky-clean energon cube and an empty sack with him—returning the cube to the commons, where he would pick up another one and whatever else he wanted, and then spend the morning sunning himself with the other older bots. He stopped and knelt as Prime approached.

Very gently, Optimus traced a glyph of blessing on the mech's faded helm. "Rise, Elder. I would like for you to meet our guest. Elder Chronicler Justus, may I present General Morshower. General, Elder Justus was the chief chronicler of legal matters at the Archives of Tyger Pax. As the only living legal archivist, he and his symbiote, Quill, are our experts on Cybertronian law." He held out a courteous servo to assist the Elder to his peds, and pretended not to hear the old bot's joints squeak as he stood. Ratchet would have him in servo soon, however, to tend to that. One of Ratchet's first requests had been for several 55-gallon drums of heavy grease, something that had been in short supply among Excellion's group.

Morshower said, "It is an honor, sir."

"Likewise, General. Thank you for the introduction, Prime."

"My pleasure. Good joor, Elder."

"And to you both as well." The old mech bowed to them both with serene dignity, then continued on his morning errands. Morshower felt like he might have just met the senior law clerk at the Supreme Court.

There might have been four, or five, or six more people of the Cybertronian stripe to greet. Morshower lost count.

Several relatively small bots gathered in a hall, chattering among themselves. A few waved shyly. Optimus, waving back, explained, "Those are younglings. That particular group is the equivalent of your middle school children. They received their youngling upgrades after the escape from Tyger Pax. They were the youngest survivors."

Morshower smiled and waved back. "Before they got the upgrades, they would have been in sparkling frames, like the Tiny Trine?"

Optimus smirked. He hadn't realized that nickname had made it off-base. "Exactly, sir."

Milestrina ushered the younglings into their classroom, sending Prime a glyph of apology for the interruption. He shared with her his unfeigned pleasure at seeing a crowd of younglings once again, something that, before Excellion's first transmission, he had grieved as gone, at least for several vorn—until Gaia and the Tiny Trine came of age.

They entered a lift, which delivered them to the command deck, where they found Drift and his officers waiting.

"Prime. Welcome, General. I am Drift, this is my executive officer, Hound, and my third in command, Hot Rod. Excellion's holoprojector is right this way."

Morshower followed. He was beginning to get a feel for the Autobots' command structure. The 2iC was a capable, experienced officer, and the 3iC—Hot Rod here (and lordamighty didn't he look like an explosion in a paint factory), the less-colorful Sideswipe in Optimus' command—was a younger officer who showed a great deal of promise, and was learning from his superiors.

Morshower wasn't as familiar with Cybertronians as Lennox and his soldiers were. Even when they had all been stationed in Washington, he had spent more time at the Pentagon than at the NEST base, and when he was on base, his duties had not allowed him much day-to-day contact with the bots. Still, with the hologram equalizing the size difference between Excellion and the adult mecha on the bridge, the general thought he recognized several clues that the shipformer was still quite young. His avatar in the holoprojector sported armor which was proportionately lighter than that of the older bots, and he had a more streamlined appearance: he had not yet collected many modifications.

"Welcome to NEST, Excellion."

The holograph nodded. "Thank you, General. Would you care to stand on the desk, closer to the screen?"

"Thank you, yes. – Thanks, Hot Rod. I'll be the first to admit that we humans have never met a being as large as yourself, so we might not be able to anticipate your needs. Are you comfortable here?"

"Yes, sir, very much so. Optimus' people were able to put together something that works very well for me. And your planet—sir, Earth is fascinating. You have so many different cultures and societies! There's so much to learn."

Morshower grinned at the shipformer's enthusiasm, which reminded him of his own grandchildren. "That there is. Be careful that you don't believe everything you find on the internet."

Excellion offered, "Since my remote is being repaired at present, perhaps you wouldn't mind if Hot Rod showed you around?"

Morshower nodded to the young, brightly-colored 3iC. "That would be great, Excellion. Will I still be able to talk to you if I have a question, or should I ask Hot Rod to relay communications?"

"Unfortunately, sir, you'll have to relay through Rodi. I'm sorry, but I have a lot of non-essential areas and systems in standby, or powered completely off, to save energon."

"Please don't apologize. I understand that resources are scarce."

"Thank you, General."

Morshower nodded to him casually, and after being lifted down to the deck, moved off with the 3iC.

Hot Rod asked, "Sir, is there anything in particular that you'd like to see first?"

"Would it be possible for me to meet more of your civilians? I met a few people on the way up here, but I didn't really have a chance to talk to any of them."

Hot Rod's optics unfocused briefly as he concentrated on internal comms. "The civilian leader is Rivet, and her office is this way, sir."

Hot Rod led of necessity, restricting his speed to match the General's. Like all the new bots, he was still over-cautious where the tiny organics were concerned, and chose to walk in the center of the corridor, where he could prevent any other bot from carelessly stumbling too close.

And Morshower, who saw what he was doing, was charmed.

Rivet opened her office door as they approached, and the general saw a large blue bot with a barreled device on her right wrist assembly. The plating of her left arm and servo had a number of the fine lines which Morshower had learned were transformation seams. He would bet that wrist assembly was a rivet gun, and that she could transform her other servo and lower arm into a variety of tools useful for her trade: from the briefings, he knew she had been in construction on Cybertron.

She was looking at him just as curiously. Hot Rod said, "General Morshower, Rivet. General, Rivet is best qualified to tell you anything that you want to know about the civilians."

Rivet cocked her head to one side. "General, ah, no offense, but would you like to be up on my desk?"

Morshower smiled. "Thanks, it's a lot easier to carry on a conversation from up there."

Hot Rod offered his palm, and when the General stepped up, carefully lifted him to the desk top. Rivet moved a pile of data pads, leaving a few stacked to a height comfortable for the human to sit on. It would not be long until the bots living and working aboard Excellion acquired human-sized furniture for their desks and tables, Morshower knew, but for now, this was a suitable arrangement.

Rivet asked, "How can I help you, sir?"

The general smiled. "I'm curious about your civilians, and it's my responsibility to make sure that their needs are being met. I understand that most of you are survivors of Tyger Pax?"

"That's right."

"Now that you've arrived here, what will you be doing?"

"Some of us will be needed to maintain Excellion. Others will have various duties that support our soldiers. No matter what our functions were in Tyger Pax, since we left Cybertron we've all had to pull together as a self-sufficient community, and I don't see that changing. We have a number of younglings with us, and several of us teach and mentor them. We've learned to make just about everything we need, anything that Excellion either can't fabricate for us, or hasn't the resources to."

Morshower had pulled a notepad out of his uniform pocket to take notes. "If that changes or you discover something you need, don't hesitate to ask. We're a very small species compared to your people, but we can be of some help."

"Yes, sir, that's what Optimus said. Thank you. There is one thing we may come to you for help with, and that's our younglings. We have several who are nearly old enough for their adult upgrades, so a lot of our time and resources have been devoted to preparing for that."

"Ratchet and I have discussed that, actually. Again, just forward any requests."

"Thank you, sir. In the near term, we're also going to be working under Ratchet's direction to perform the kind of maintenance on Prime's strike team that they've had to do without since the diaspora began. Now, I've never been around the military before, because Tyger Pax was a small town that didn't have much strategic value until the last days of the war. But even I know that warriors like that didn't manage on their own. Ideally, each one of them would have had two or three other bots assigned to keeping them in top condition. Most of us aren't trained for that, but we're going to do our best. Most of us aren't sparked as fighters, either—there are some exceptions—but we pull our weight. I don't think you'll be sorry to have us around, sir."

Morshower nodded. "We won't be, no. We've learned a great deal from having Optimus and his crew among us, and I'm certain that having non-military personnel among you will teach us a great deal more. And would it surprise you to learn that the support system is pretty much the same in our military? You may hear references to the 'teeth to tail' ratio. For every soldier who goes out on the front lines—the teeth—there are several support personnel back at base—the tail—who are responsible for feeding the frontliners, doing their laundry, providing medical care, maintaining their vehicles, taking care of all sorts of needs. Without its tail personnel, an army has a very difficult time."

He didn't mention that those support personnel were also soldiers, or civilians under contract to the military. But he would mention it to Optimus Prime as a way to increase the number of Cybertronians who could be classified as Autobots, or as dependents of Autobots, and therefore allowed the same relaxed restrictions as the Autobots who had been here all along. If Morshower had his way about it, any of them who weren't too old or too young to fight would all be "military" in one way or another by the time he had to report back to Washington.

Damn pencil pushers. He'd show them how generations of soldiers had made a career of getting their own way by following idiotic orders to the letter while completely ignoring the spirit of said orders.

After the tour, he went back to the hangars for a meeting with Optimus Prime, Lennox and senior staff. Each had a short report concerning their own areas, and then discussion turned to their concerns about Soundwave's gang, and to the Pretender protoforms which were still unaccounted for. No one had anything new to add regarding either of those situations.

Prowl reported that Bumblebee's team was in position and searching the Yucatan for signs of Soundwave's missing symbionts, but so far had no results to report. Morshower wasn't sure how Sector 7's resident lunatic conspiracy theorist had become their go-to guy for undercover ops—Jazz' human counterpart, by all accounts. It probably had something to do with Simmons' most outrageous conspiracy theory turning out to be the gospel truth.

Drift sent Prime a respectful ping for attention, and waited to be called upon.

Optimus sent ::?:: and replied aloud for the benefit of the humans, "You have a question, Drift?"

"That ongoing disturbance outside the gate, whose members are apparently against our continued presence on this planet. How widespread is that sentiment? Are we here against the will of the people of Earth?"

Morshower glanced at Prime, and at his nod fielded the question. "No, you are not. There have always been small, loud, reactionary minorities among us who, to put it bluntly, are bigoted against everyone who isn't exactly like them. Until now, each one of those groups has turned their vitriol against others of our own kind for reasons of race, religion, nationality, gender, tribal membership, sexual orientation—any possible reason for them to create scapegoats whom they can blame for everything that goes wrong in their lives."

Several pairs of optics unfocused as bots researched the term "scapegoats." Morshower waited until they refocused, whereupon Prowl asked, "Why do they do that?"

"Because God forbid they should have to take responsibility for their own shortcomings," Morshower replied. Usually he was the least judgmental person any of them were likely to meet, except for Prime himself, but now a great deal of his personal aggravation with the protesters came through loud and clear. "Most of them are a few bricks short of a full load. Until now, they were separated by the targets of their hatred: everyone who didn't scapegoat the same groups they did was a danger to each separate group, in their eyes. But now, you're here, and the fact that you are not human has united all these kooks against you.

"They don't represent the majority. Most of us have sense enough to know full well we could have killed the Decepticons without your help, but it would have taken the loss of one person for every eight of us worldwide, a billion deaths, and there would have been twice that many dead from the hardships that followed the massive destruction of our civilization. Every major US city would have looked like Chicago. The survivors would have been left sifting through the ashes for three or four generations before our planet recovered—if it did.

"You have a lot more friends than you do enemies here. But your friends are complacent. They're letting your enemies create a side show out there. And our laws don't permit us to round 'em up and stick 'em in jail for voicing their opinion."

Optimus said, "Freedom is the right of all sentient beings—even when they choose to make use of that freedom in a wrong-helmed, obnoxious manner. You say that this coalition of reactionary groups has little in common besides their distrust of aliens."

"True. They're only drawn together by their perception of a common enemy."

Optimus said, "Then the disintegration of that coalition will very likely be violent. They will turn on one another and innocent people will probably be killed. Is there no way that your government can break up this gathering before it comes to that?"

Morshower said, "No, Optimus, there isn't—not without evidence that the protest is going to turn violent. The best we can do is try to have enough law enforcement officers on the scene to contain the situation if rioting does start."

"I see. Prowl, please get me all the information we have available on the various factions and their leaders."

The tactician quickly collected the data and transmitted the file. Optimus reviewed it just as quickly, then committed it to a storage area where referencing it would be easy.

The Eastland Church group was relatively small, a maximum of twenty protesters present, mostly related to one another. They were religious fanatics, and their history pointed to their being beyond reasoning with.

There were several groups representing various racist gangs. They had common cause in that they condemned all Cybertronians, Autobot and Decepticon alike, for being outsiders. But they were also reputed to be rivals in various criminal enterprises such as peddling drugs and running prostitution rings. They had a strong presence in the prison system as well. These gangs commonly fought among themselves, sometimes with lethal results.

One group was there for political purposes. They meant to use the Cybertronians' presence as an issue in the upcoming election, as part and parcel of their objection to immigrants making use of social programs, which their taxes paid for. They felt that the Cybertronians were likewise a waste of their tax dollars, now that the Decepticon threat was believed to be ended, and should be forced out, or at least not supported.

Another political group was composed of traditional conservative war hawks. Their objection to the Cybertronians was their insistence on neutrality. They seemed to think that, if pressed, Optimus would sign his people over to fight the Americans' wars for them rather than leave the planet.

In that, though, they were wrong. Earth was the best planet in the system for them to make a new home, but certainly not the only one Cybertronians could make habitable. Optimus thought that with their pragmatic motivations, perhaps he could negotiate with those protestors. If so, he might be able to drive a wedge into the coalition that would break up the loose organization arrayed against them.

There was a precedent. Shortly before the Battle of Chicago, the Autobots had destroyed a nuclear weapons factory in the Middle East. While intended to protect all the nations of earth from having more madmen with their fingers on the triggers of nuclear weapons, that act had played into US interests. These old-line Republicans had approved of his actions at the time. While he would not promise to take sides in human conflicts, if a similar situation happened again, he would order the same type of response. That alone served as a deterrent, one which would be removed if the Cybertronians were forced to leave. Optimus doubted the hawks really wanted that.

Optimus decided not to voice his plan, however, while the General was there. If things went sour, it would be better if Morshower weren't directly involved. Instead he asked, "Are the deputies keeping the various factions separated?"

Prowl replied, "After the incident with the slingshot, they have done so, and they have also arranged for off-duty Las Vegas police officers to bolster their forces."

"Very well."

The meeting after that turned to the feasibility of a visit to the Ark, in order to lay its crew to rest and salvage the ship. Drift reported, "The Aerialbots are good to go as soon as you give the word, Prime, but we haven't got enough energon stockpiled yet to provision a scouting mission and still have reserves to deal with an attack, much less to lift the salvage back here. Silverbolt is the only one who has any cargo space to speak of. They'll have to combine and carry it back as Superion, and that will require a lot of energon."

"It is a priority, as soon as we have the resources available," Prime replied.

Morshower silently cursed that it was an energon problem. If it had been a money problem, there were dozens of universities and business interests—hell, small countries for that matter—who would have happily paid for a ride to the moon. But no amount of money would increase their energon production capacity. Everything the Autobots and the US government had was already maxed out, and so far, the geniuses at Area 51 had not yet figured out how to make new energon cubes out of materials available on Earth. And the Autobots did not yet have the tools to build the production facilities that had been lost with Cybertron.

Dropped into the stone age with a bowie knife and a screwdriver, Steve Jobs couldn't have built a computer without going through a lot of intermediate steps first. The Cybertronians had been dropped into their own stone age, and had inquisitive, destructive monkeys to deal with as well.

(End Part 10)


	11. Chapter 11

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Eleven

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

After the general and his entourage went back to Nellis, Optimus pinged Jazz and Prowl to meet him in his office to discuss strategy. Once Prowl had shut the door behind them and taken a seat in his chair, and Jazz had turned the other one around and leaned casually on the back of it, Optimus told them about his idea to break up the alliance of protestors outside.

Prowl considered. "I believe that your projected course of action is sound. The hawks are the most likely to be swayed to our side. Consider well how much you are willing to compromise before starting down this road, Prime."

"As the humans say, I believe that I have a very long spoon."

The other Cybertronians frowned and embarked upon googling, eventually coming up with "sup with the devil" and the nature of that being.

When their optics came back into focus, Optimus said, "I will not agree to anything that requires us to perpetrate violence against humans, unless two conditions are fulfilled. First, we independently confirm that those humans are about to commit atrocities against others who cannot defend themselves, and second, we are the only line of defense against that. But, should both those conditions be true, we would have acted anyway. I see no harm in reminding the hawks of that fact."

The strategist bowed his helm. "It is as you say, Prime."

Jazz said, "Somethin' else to consider. Soundwave could be out there, and unless we get incredibly lucky, we'll never know it unless he decides to do somethin'. If you go out there and have that crowd millin' around you, Ah can't guarantee your safety. Granted, Ah don't think they have the armament for most of them to present a threat, but there are huntin' rifles out there, and all it would take would be one expert marksman gettin' off the shot of a lifetime. Ah don't think Ah need t'remind ya that Sounders is pretty good at hittin' what he aims at."

Prime said, "Nevertheless, you just have."

Jazz laughed. "So Ah did. Maybe Ah did need t'remind ya."

Prime nodded. "How would you suggest minimizing that risk?"

"Don't get in the crowd an' make a target outta yourself. Have the ones you want to talk to come to you. Pick the place so Ah can cover it."

"We cannot bring them on base. It would involve the military in a potential media circus if anything goes wrong, and besides that, I do not want them near our non-combatants."

Jazz thought about it. "Maybe Mr. Najantdahl would let us use the parking lot of his store. The building would give us some cover."

Mr. Najantdahl proved amicable, provided compensation was paid. The fee agreed upon was, after negotiation, almost reasonable.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next morning, Optimus Prime met with the leaders of the demonstration. The protesters had all been pushed behind a police line a quarter mile north of the store, and the north side of the parking lot was blocked by a large SWAT van and a pair of big RVs that served, respectively, as mobile command posts for the Clark County Sheriff's Department and the Las Vegas PD.

Ironhide had parked his hulking black frame precisely in the middle of the no man's land between those vehicles and the police line. If the demonstrators wished for a big, menacing Cybertronian, Ironhide was willing to be the Tooth Fairy who granted that wish. He saw no sense in advertising that he was in that location for his targeting mods, which he had patched through to Prowl, channeling the strategist a flood of data on the crowd.

Back in his office, Prowl had gone into full information analysis mode, shutting down everything extraneous to processing that flood of data, along with streams coming from tapped police helicopter cameras, from the energon detectors that ringed the base, and from the sensors on Excellion's solar collector spires. All this data was collated and filtered through crowd movement analysis, facial recognition, and weapons alert subroutines.

Bluestreak had a vantage point on the collector tower nearest the crowd, keeping track of the top 100 possible threats which Prowl had marked at any given moment.

If the level of any given threat exceeded the threshold below which they merely monitored the situation, Prowl might notify the sheriff, or have Ironhide take care of it with one of the non-lethal options that he had been developing. But in the case of a direct, immediate, credible threat to the life of his Prime which could be countered in no other way, he would order Bluestreak to take his shot.

Jazz came in beside him and sent a query for a hardline. Prowl barely gave it a moment's thought as he offered his wrist port. What would have been a tremendous intrusion where anyone else was concerned was nothing out of the ordinary for bondmates; even so, when Jazz was dropped into the fast current of data which Prowl was managing, it took him a moment to get his bearings. He knew he couldn't hope to keep up, so he waited for Prowl to direct him to the high priority results, a much more manageable data set where he could complement his mate's logic with his own intuition.

Across the interstate from the main gate, Optimus regarded the four men who had come to meet with him.

Jeremy "Hellhound" Schroeder was dressed in black riding leathers, and his jacket had a swastika on the back. He stood shaven head and shoulders above the other men, and all of them gave him plenty of room. There was a skull tattooed on the left side of his neck, and his right wrist was decorated by a rattlesnake coiled around the number 187, a prison tattoo which denoted that he had committed murder in the state of California.

Now that they were close enough for Optimus to get a good reading on their auras, he was less concerned about Hellhound than he was about the wizened old man standing next to him. Reverend Horton Hanford Dowling was the patriarch of the family which made up most of the congregation of the Eastland Church.

Hellhound was a businessman, and though he could kill without remorse, for him, it was all business. If he was moved to offer violence, it was neither random nor unnecessary. It would be bad for business to draw the attention of the police to his very profitable drug and prostitution enterprises: and that business was his overarching concern. There was little emotional attachment to the idea of the Cybertronians being gone for him; he thought that Murrica should be for Murricans: so long as they were adult white males. In Hellhound's view, not even Drift's paint job qualified him as an "adult white male."

Reverend Dowling, on the other hand, burned with his hatred of Optimus' people, boiled and curdled with it; he was the kind of man to strip an unbeliever's flesh from the bone, and offer up the victim's screams to his dark god. In Optimus' opinion that being was most certainly different than the one worshipped by other humans who identified themselves as Christians.

Optimus, for the moment the focal point of that soul-rending hate, was the locked-on target of a pair of eyes which neither blinked nor wavered. If looks could kill, Prowl would have ordered Blue to take his shot the moment Dowling sighted the Prime.

The Prime had fought Decepticons who had been equally unhinged by fanatical devotion to the Unmaker. They were capable of anything, and absolutely unpredictable. And this human had twisted what was meant to be a religion of love and forgiveness into something unrecognizable.

Jonestown, the Branch Davidians, Heaven's Gate: Optimus feared for this man's followers. Some few were as bad as he was, but there were also children caught up in his cult of hatred, and they would be dragged down with him.

Giving both of them plenty of room was Shane Holden, a Las Vegas lawyer and an influential figure in the county's Tea Party movement, an average, ordinary person: or so he looked. He was running for county commissioner, and had a tough primary ahead of him.

He was involved today because getting his base fired up against aliens would increase voter turnout in that hotly contested primary. In his movement's little corner of the world, there were Americans and then there was everyone else. Immigration was a bad thing. It was bad enough if the immigrants were Mexicans, or Muslims; alien robots were out of the question. They couldn't even be hired illegally for yard work or as housekeepers.

Individually, though, Holden was not dangerous, or even what Optimus would have described as an evil person, not in the same category as a neo-Nazi biker and a religious madman. Holden was greedy and weak; he lacked the power of Hellhound's overarching greed, and had nothing the caliber of Dowling's loathing of anyone not already a member of his cult.

At the end of the line was a tall, wiry man dressed as a well-to-do rancher. His clothing was of good quality, but not ostentatious, and his boots and belt showed signs of well-kept wear. George Ross, in addition to a large ranch which had been in his family for over a century, was the owner of Ross Trucking and Ross Construction. He was responsible for a good percentage of the non-casino oriented jobs in Clark County.

The story of George Ross' life was available in news articles and the short biography on his company web sites. He had returned a wounded hero from Vietnam in 1973—Optimus could easily sense the shrapnel he still carried in his left leg, and had to admit he had not noticed the man's very slight limp until he had detected that anomaly. Upon his return, young George had followed his father into local county politics, and was now the vice chair of the Clark County Republican Party. He had served two terms on his local school board while his children were in school in the 1990s, but had then retired from holding office in order to devote himself to his business interests.

Judging from what he had read of the man's politics, Optimus would classify him as a fiscal conservative and a social moderate—one of the old line Republicans who were being slowly crowded out of Republicanism by the Tea Party. One of his sons ran his trucking company—in fact, Optimus was acquainted with the younger Ross, at least over the CB, and had always held a high opinion of him. His older son and his daughter, the youngest child, were both career officers in the US military. His son had followed him into the Marines, and now commanded a unit in Afghanistan. His daughter had seen greater opportunities for advancement in the Navy, and flew off a carrier in the Gulf. The Ross family was well known for their generosity to their Methodist church, and Ross was also very active in the American Legion and its charitable causes.

Looking at the four individuals in front of him, Optimus had to stifle a thoroughly inappropriate snort of amusement as his processor dredged up an internet meme: one of these things is not like the others.

In any other circumstances, Ross would be out to get Hellhound arrested, or at the very least run out of Clark County. He was undoubtedly backing Holden's opponent with all his financial resources and political savvy. And, at the slightest provocation, Optimus would wager his next week's energon that Ross would happily beat the living daylights out of Dowling for his desecration of veterans' funerals—and if he did, it would be unlikely that a local jury could be seated to convict him.

Optimus grinned to himself at that thought and said, "Thank you all for taking the time to speak to me. We have quite a situation here, and I would like the opportunity to listen to each of your concerns and see if there is any way that we can come to terms."

Hellhound nodded curtly.

Holden murmured an insincere thanks.

Ross said, "Thank you, that's what we need."

Dowling said, "There can be no negotiation with demons. They must be cast out."

Optimus tilted a helm about three-quarters of the man's height toward Dowling. "You think me a demon, sir?"

The old man's eyes flashed scorn, though his response seemed to Optimus not to make sense. "You've brought your heathen ways here, our government allowed you to stay, and as a result one of our cities lies in ruins. God's judgment will continue to rain down upon us until all of your kind are gone from this planet."

"I see. I will say what I have always said: if your governments ask us to go, we will go. In fact, we have already done so. However, the Decepticons did not leave, and I submit that allowing them to act unchecked gave them the opportunity to wreak destruction in Chicago. If it were the will of your God that we should go, then would He not have blessed you for sending us away?"

"He did, by delivering most of the people of Chicago. This nation was still punished for its iniquity, but He stayed His hand."

Optimus could not have followed this logic with a map. He resorted to the truth: "Yet, we had returned by then, and my soldiers were responsible for saving the lives of many of those who escaped."

"God works in mysterious ways."

"Indeed, this one in particular is a mystery to me."

Hellhound snorted, and pointed at Dowling. "This dumbass freak is a mystery to everyone. They got nothin' to do with most of us out here, there's thirty or forty of them and all they do is stand on street corners and scream about homos. They're only important because when they get up there and shake their asses on camera, it makes ratings for the six o'clock news." The big man turned his head to Dowling, and spat, accurately, at his feet. "You're nothing but a dancin' monkey."

Dowling empurpled. Optimus took control back: "Yet the rest of you tolerate his presence within your movement, so I am forced to conclude that you have something in common with them, or some sympathy with their viewpoint."

Ross said, "You're mistaken there, sir. I think the court erred in striking down the law against their protests. Reverend Dowling, you, sir, belong in jail. But as long as the court says you've got a right to spread your bullshit, there's nothing anyone can legally do about it."

"Legally," Hellhound smirked.

Dowling glared at him. "Was that a threat?"

"Oh, hell no. I was just agreein' with Mr. Ross here. Nobody can do anything about you without breaking the law. That's just a statement of fact. Can't get busted for that."

Optimus intervened in the pissing contest, sorely tempted though he was to let Hellhound work out a way to pound Dowling into the ground, and preferably, six feet under it: though he would bet that nothing would subsequently grow there. "Mr. Schroeder, if your motives are different from Reverend Dowling's, would you like to enlighten me?"

Hellhound smirked; he had not been addressed as "Mr. Schroeder" since he was last in court. "It's no secret I believe America belongs to white _human _Americans. None of you belong here, not you, not the Mexicans or the chinks, and definitely not the 'Cons. How long's it going to be before one of you is gonna be workin', say, an assembly line, and puttin' twenty-five, thirty men out of work? How much are you...people...costin' the taxpayers with that huge base and whatever? Now the 'Cons are gone, you should just pack up and move on, instead of bringin' in more, like that bigass son of a bitch who landed day before yesterday."

"There are other Decepticons. Some of them have so far evaded capture, others have not yet come to Earth. Four of them raided this base not so very long ago."

"Yeah, got your word for that. And Chicago proved, we know how to kill 'em now. I don't see where we still need you."

"Possibly your government will agree with you, and we will leave if ordered to do so." Optimus paused long enough for that to sink through three of the four heads; nothing was getting past Dowling's forcefield of hate. "That being said, as long as we are permitted to stay, we have no intention of competing with your workers, and our actions on behalf of your government have saved more money than we have cost."

Holden said, "It's an immigration issue, and it isn't confined to your people. Our border is a sieve. I don't believe that it's fair to those who have made the effort to enter this country legally to allow everyone who gets across the border to stay."

"We are here legally, either as permanent residents, or as refugees from a genocidal war. There are already procedures in place for dealing with both situations. Understand, when we came here, it was our intention to retrieve the All-Spark and move on. However, we discovered there was already a Decepticon presence on earth when we arrived. We stayed to assist your government in dealing with that. As I have said, that situation is ongoing. Most of the Decepticons have been killed or captured, but the danger still remains. Should we leave, I assure you that Soundwave—he is a surviving Deception, yet unapprehended, who has drawn others like him to himself," Optimus said, as Dowling's eyes had gone blank "—and his coterie would make full use of the freedom that our absence would offer. They would find this area a very handy base of operations without an Autobot presence to deter them. Las Vegas would be stripped of human life within the decade."

Hellhound said, "Yeah, but that takes for granted they don't get a missile up their ass as soon as they show it."

Optimus nodded. "It does, with good reason. The easy targets have already been hit, for the most part. Most of the survivors are smaller, more stealthy. Some are not much larger than a human being, some considerably smaller. Tell me, when you wish to expand your...business interests, do you advertise that fact? Do you make an announcement to the universe that you plan to take over a new territory?"

Hellhound, his eyes locked to Optimus' optics, shook his head.

"I thought not. Soundwave also has a helm for business. Without the Autobots to contend with, he would begin a campaign of subverting those in power, and replacing those he could not subvert. By the time he made his presence known, he would already control those whose responsibility it would have been to stop him."

Hellhound nodded reluctantly. "The Mexican cartels got a phrase for it—'the silver or the lead.'"

"That would be Soundwave's policy precisely."

Holden said curtly, "It's to your advantage to have a few 'Cons still out there. Why should we believe you're willing to bring them all down?"

"Mr. Holden, there is no benefit to us whatsoever to dragging out this war. There are fewer than two thousand living Cybertronians left in the entire galaxy. The longer combat drags on, the higher the number of casualties incurred. I want to put a definitive end to it, and repatriate as many of my people as will accept my leadership. Those committed beyond his death to Megatron, or those who follow the Fallen, must, unfortunately, die."

"'Repatriate' them? Here? Two _thousand _of you here, and half of them Decepticons? That is not acceptable," Holden replied.

"That is for your government to decide, sir, not you yourself."

Holden hmphed and turned away.

Ross said, "Sir, I have a problem with your expectations that my country will support you in your war, while you are unwilling to reciprocate. Your people have created a distraction at a time when we needed our resources to deal with two conflicts."

"Mr. Ross, your government already had been holding the leader of the Decepticon faction prisoner for a century before the arrival of any Autobots. Did you think that none of his troops would come looking for him? You would have faced the Decepticon armada, with or without our presence. It was to both your advantage and ours to pool our resources against a common threat."

Optimus watched their eyes change as they digested that—all but Dowling's. Was it even possible to get through to that man? He said carefully, "As for our participation in your wars, we would be no better than the Decepticons if we were willing to do that. The size and power differential between any two members of our species make direct combat between us unthinkable to my people, and repellent to me, personally."

"That ain't enough of a guarantee that you an' yours won't turn against us," Hellhound said.

Optimus replied patiently, "Do not forget that I watched a global conflict destroy my world. I will _not_ be a party to such again. We have, on rare occasions, taken action against renegades who threatened everyone, doing as little harm as possible in the process, but conquest of your world never has been and never will be our goal." He smiled at Ross. "No organic world is entirely suitable to us. Nor is it acceptable to me to stand by and watch a third global war begin on this one, whoever might be the perpetrator."

Ross blinked. The other three did not.

Optimus sent his glance among them. "The challenges to lasting peace your people face seem insurmountable, but I hope that you will somehow arrive at a solution which will allow your planet and your species to survive, even to thrive. Inserting ourselves into your conflicts would neither help the situation nor respect your right to determine your own destiny."

Ross held his gaze for a long, thoughtful moment, then nodded.

Dowling's eyes remained unchanged. Hellhound's did too, but Optimus didn't expect the neo-Nazi to change on-site, as it were. The man would have to go away and do whatever he did to verify Optimus' statements; having found out that the leader of the Autobots spoke nothing but the truth, he would…do only and exactly what benefited Hellhound's business, Optimus realized.

The same was true of Holden. He would do anything to make himself the candidate of choice to the largest number of voters; his own feelings, if he had any, mattered nothing to him.

So, Optimus thought, he was dealing with one sane person, one who was…far from that, and two out only for their own self-interest. He could work with that one, and see that the other two were given the means by which to destroy themselves. Holden had no sense, and Hellhound had no balance; those were the keys.

As for Dowling, Optimus had no clues of any kind what would get through to the man.

Ross said, "Well then. I've heard sufficient to allay my own concerns. I'd be happy to talk to you again, sir." He nodded his head to Optimus, and turned, walking away straight-spined.

Holden looked as if he wanted to offer his hand, but instead came up with the politician's smile and the politician's jargon: "It's been a real pleasure, Optimus, to speak with you this morning. Despite our differences, I enjoyed the dialog."

Hellhound watched him go with eyes of stony contempt. Then he said, "Don't think we got much in common, and I still want you gone."

Dowling's eyes were just as stony. He began, "When the Will of God is obeyed and you and the demons who accompany you are banished from the face of the earth—"

Optimus performed an act very unusual for him: he interrupted.

"Reverend Dowling, I will not listen to you rant at me."

He transformed and drove off with Ironhide, leaving the desiccated old man in a plume of dust.

(End Part Eleven)


	12. Chapter 12

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Twelve

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next morning, Diarwen sipped peppermint tea as she waited outside Optimus' office, where the senior staff was having their morning meeting. Their time together was limited. They tried not to let their duties intrude when they managed to find a little time and privacy. But, last night, Optimus had been troubled by his meeting with the protest leaders...

"_Acushla_, what has happened?"

"Nothing has happened, precisely. I am sorry to be a...what did Will call it? A wet blanket?"

"You are no such thing," she said, and got up from where she had been sitting crosslegged on her futon to lean against him. "Up," she said.

Moving slowly, he curled his digits around her so that she could sit on his servo, and lifted her to his chest plates, where she sat cross-legged, aligning her chakras over his spark in a way that created a deeper connection between them.

"Now, tell me what troubles you."

"That preacher, Reverend Dowling. When I left him, I wanted to go straight to the washracks, and remove every trace of evidence that I had ever been in his presence. Diarwen, I wanted to wash my very _spark_. There is something in his energy fields that I have only seen before in empties, and the dying, and worse: streaks of black."

"Is he dying?"

Optimus' optics went far away for a moment as he processed the answer to that question. "I think not," he said finally, his attention returning to her. "His field was as strong as any other human's. And...this was different from the dying. Primus knows I have seen enough sparks gutter. If he were Cybertronian, I would say that he had embraced the Unmaker. Not even Megatron and Sentinel did such, though they certainly followed the Fallen in the worship of Unicron. In my experience, only the Fallen himself was similar, until we battled Sufri."

"Goddess. I know of what you speak. Did he say anything to lead you to believe that he has turned to the worship of the Christians' Devil?"

"No, he spoke of their God as if he were still a follower of that faith. But that cannot be," Optimus said, sounding somewhat puzzled, "not if I am right about what I saw."

Diarwen sighed for her beloved's experience. "It would not be the first time people who deluded themselves they were doing the will of their God were actually following quite a different path. I met a fair few on both sides during the wars of the Reformation. Extreme times, and extreme positions, seem to breed them."

"I have discovered that the humans apparently produce such individuals with a distressing regularity. David Koresh and Jim Jones both led their flocks to mass suicide. In and of himself, Dowling is no threat to anyone. But if his people follow him as blindly as history shows such groups can, I fear for them." Optimus' voice dropped to a low rumble. "There are many children among them."

Diarwen's heart broke at the thought of her gentle beloved forced to watch another settlement destroyed, either by war or by the settlers' own hands. "Would you have me investigate?"

But he shook his helm. "I would not risk putting you on the front lines of yet another religious war—and at that, a war that our interference could start. Yet, I think it would be better to have your opinion as well as my own, were it possible for you to be in Dowling's presence. You are far more experienced than I."

Diarwen nodded. "To see _that_ in someone's aura is no small thing, Optimus. I understand why his company upset you. If he fails to do as much damage as the Fallen, it would be lack of opportunity, not motive. I trust your Sight, trust that you have become skilled enough to read such an extreme aura correctly. But I shall go and see what is to be seen, and they will not know that I have been among them."

He exvented. "I am at a loss. What am I to do about an evil glitch who happens to be human?"

"Perhaps you are not the one meant to deal with the situation. He _is_ human, after all."

"We are all responsible, beloved."

And there, she knew, was the crux of the matter. "I know. Let the camp settle, and I will explore when most of them are sleeping."

"Diarwen, be careful. I can be there in minutes, but much can happen in that time."

"I know, _acushla_. I shall."

Two hours later, Diarwen had dressed in black and slipped across the interstate at the main gate. After leaving the lights of Mr. Najantdahl's store behind, the dark desert night had swallowed her up.

Quite a few people were still up and about in the protesters' area, but they stayed close to their camps. The Eastlanders were camped at the north end of the group, a small collection of tents and campers around a central cooking fire. Two men with rifles were on guard duty.

Thin camper walls and canvas tents did not prevent her from seeing the auras within. Most adults' were some pale shade of gray, sickly green, or brown. But among them, among their children's bright pastels, Dowling stood out like a foul stain: oil on water, poisoning everything around it.

She wanted to vomit, but she had spent several centuries developing the bodily control to prevent that wish from becoming father to the deed. She slipped away into the surrounding desert and returned to the base, a place she thought of as "home."

And then she skinnied up the wall to enter Prime's quarters by the window: the heart of that home, for her, where dwelt something she had thought never to have again.

Optimus' optics unshuttered as she entered. "Diarwen?"

The Sidhe took off her jacket and the stocking cap which had concealed her silver braid. "You were right, _acushla__,_ and that comes as no surprise to me at all. That man is either evil by choice, or very, very sick."

Optimus exvented. "Tomorrow, after the senior staff meeting, I would like for you to explain what we have seen. They will have questions, and I may not be advanced enough in my studies to answer them all."

"Of course. With your permission, I will bring Dr. Boggs along as well. It is her business to understand when things go awry with human minds." She shuddered. "And now, I want a very long, hot shower."

Optimus had allowed the installation of very few of the amenities due a mech of his rank, but a private place to wash up was one of them. That consisted of a drain in the floor, a hose that ran both hot and cold water, and a huge bucket the size of a large tub. Diarwen found this last item quite satisfactory for either bathing or showering. Optimus had fully realized for the first time exactly how much smaller than he his beloved was when he had found her happily soaking in hot water up to her chin in his rinse bucket.

There was nothing happy about that night. She took her basket from the back of his supply cabinet and assembled from it a cotton washcloth, homemade soap from the farmers' market, and a jar of Epsom salts scented with rosemary and sage; last, she went to the cabinet where she kept a hotplate and a few cooking things, and added the pitcher in which she sometimes brewed sun tea. He adjusted the flow from the hose to a gentle spray and held it for her while she scrubbed. She shifted her focus inward, and the darkness which had touched her aura and clung to her flowed out through her pores, to be carried away by the herb-scented water.

"What?" she said, on seeing his face she stepped out from under the flow. "You have helped me to shower before."

"Yes," he said, "but I did not realize before that the simple act of bathing in water could be spiritually cleansing."

"Oh aye. Water will do it, all by itself, but Epsom salts are wonderfully purifying as well, and the rosemary and sage I mixed into them have that energy too."

True enough, Diarwen did not feel the last tentacles of Dowling's foulness leave her until she poured the pitcher of salts dissolved into warm water over her head. Then and only then was she free of him; then and only did she fully return to Optimus, and lay her head over his spark.

Dr. Bogg's arrival shook Diarwen out of her memories; she'd sent a brief email to the psychiatrist, outlining what she perceived. The doctor asked, "Is everything OK, Diarwen? You, yourself, I mean?"

"Yes, of course. I was shaken by what I saw last night, that is all."

"I understand. It's always difficult to be around the…impaired, and more so if you are not prepared for the encounter."

Diarwen forewent a reply when Sideswipe opened the door. "We're ready for you now."

"Thank you, Sides," Diarwen said, and she and Boggs climbed the stairs to the top of Prime's desk to join Lennox and Graham.

Optimus said, "As you all know, I spoke yesterday with the leaders of the protest. There are four very distinct groups out there, and it seems that their only point of agreement is that our presence here is unwelcome.

"I do not believe that George Ross' faction will be a problem, now that he and I have spoken. He understands that there is still a danger from the remaining Decepticons, and that, unlike them, we have no intention of conquering this planet." He saw Will, who reminded him most of Ross among those present, nod in agreement.

"The neo-Nazis are criminals of the worst sort, but their criminal enterprises are their first priority. They hate us and do not want us here, and any of our people who leave the base alone should be aware of the danger that a large group of them could present. They travel in armed gangs, and I would not be at all surprised to learn that they possess weapons which could be a serious danger to us."

"'S unusual," Ironhide rumbled.

Prowl stirred, and said, "They may have shoulder-fired rockets. They _do _have rifles capable of throwing a shell that could penetrate the chestplates of anybot smaller than, say, Jazz. I wouldn't want to be hit by one."

Ratchet growled.

Optimus let everyone's fields, not only the bots', settle for a moment before he continued. Lennox, for one, was as angry as Optimus had ever seen Diarwen's brother-by-choice, and Graham was white about the mouth. "The Tea Party sees our presence, like that of any other minority, as a rallying point to consolidate their base. If they can inflame those likely to vote for them to the point that they will turn out to vote, then they can concentrate on the undecided voters who are likely to determine many elections. This is simple campaign strategy on their part. The leadership does not necessarily hate us, or care one way or the other if we remain, as long as we do not cost them money. But they also do not care if they spread hatred among their followers, or what the result of that hatred might be for us. The danger they present is that their rhetoric could incite violent action on the part of some of their more fanatical followers. Those are a minority among them."

Jazz initiated a websearch that would tell him who those followers were and reveal their natures to him, so far as their past history showed it, because past history was the best predictor of future behavior in humans. He would show Prowl the results of that if they warranted it…

This required only a nanoklik, and the spec ops mech turned his full attention back to Optimus as the Prime continued, "Dowling is another grade of energon entirely. That man is insane, and what is more, there is that about him which leads me to believe he has been compromised by dark powers, whether those of his own religion, or something else." He saw Lennox and Graham exchange a skeptical glance. "Please, bear with me for a moment. I understand your skepticism, though, Will, I do think you, at least, have known Diarwen and Betony well enough to continue to receive the datastream, at the least."

Lennox gave Diarwen a sheepish look. "Hey, until I saw what you did in Chicago, all I saw was herbs and crystals and floofy girl stuff. I saw you light the stove burners without matches, small things like that. Or, I saw you in desert camo with all kinds of comic-book arrowheads for your bow. You were overseas a lot, and we never served in the same places. How was I supposed to know how badass you really are?"

Diarwen popped her de facto brother on the back of the head, to the amusement of all present. Optimus was unsure whether she had done it deliberately to bring some much-needed lightness into the room, but it had that effect.

Optimus continued, "I became an acolyte of Primus when I was first upgraded to my youngling frame many vorn ago. For those of you who may not know this, all Primes are priests; achieving the priesthood is part of our training. As one of the ordeals on the path to becoming a priest, every acolyte descended into the very center of Cybertron, to the oldest structures built on the rock core of our planet. This descent through the temple undercroft took us back through the history of our faith, for, as our civilization progressed, new temple structures were built atop the old. The very core of that temple was a tomb, where the actual frame which Primus inhabited when He sealed Unicron rested. I have touched that frame and sensed the field patterns still detectable within it."

There was a stir in the room among the bots.

"Every candidate for the priesthood must visit His tomb to ensure that any priest and every Prime _knows_, need not take on faith, that Primus did and does exist. Because I undertook that journey, I have direct experience of what the sacred is.

"I have also encountered the profane. The best examples of that, which most of you have also seen, were the Fallen, and the creature Sufri. Those of us who are Cybertronian may have encountered empties who consumed dark energon; those field patterns are not only distinct but once seen, never forgotten.

"Yesterday, I saw those patterns once more, this time in Horton Dowling's aura."

Silence followed. Then Sideswipe's and Boggs' fields showed a tiny uncertainty, and the Prime realized he needed to clarify something: "'Field pattern' and 'aura' are, to the best of my knowledge, synonyms for the same thing," he said, and their puzzlement vanished.

"Last night, at my request, Diarwen went to the Eastlanders' camp site to confirm what I saw. As she is much more experienced than I with this aspect of field interpretation, I will yield the floor to her now, in order that she might explain this to us all."

Diarwen said, "I concur with Optimus' conclusions. The man is a dangerous psychopath, and the darkness in his aura was visible to me all the way across the camp. I have been doing some thinking since I saw him, and I believe that Dowling has deteriorated since last Litha—late June," she added, as confusion spread across some human faces. "I saw him at their protest from approximately the same distance, and did not see then what I perceived last night."

"So whatever this is," Boggs said, "it's of recent onset."

"Yes. His followers are...affected. Their auras are dimmed, and muddied, but still normal. That of Dowling is not. I join Optimus in his concern for the other Eastlanders. It is my honest belief that Dowling is quite capable of leading them all to take their own lives, and that the adults are caught up enough in the cult to do so. I cannot begin to express how concerned I am for the children of the cult. I believe society is as good as leaving them in a tinderbox and allowing them to play with matches."

Jazz said, troubled, "Can't lock 'em up for what they _might_ do. Can we?"

Dr. Boggs shook her head. "None of this is admissible in court. And even if it were, it's only an educated guess about what they might do. No court will take action against them based on that." She paused, then continued, choosing her words very carefully. "When I was asked to attend this meeting, I went to YouTube to watch some of Dowling's speeches. Understand, he is not my patient and I cannot make a diagnosis. Also, I don't know enough about him to speculate about his future actions. I found that his public speeches have changed over time: they are more rambling and appear to be less solidly based in reality. The level of vitriol has increased. Based only on those observations, I can't rule out the possibility that he could be a danger to himself and others. But again, I cannot be more specific than 'could be.'"

Lennox asked, "So what are we supposed to do? Nothing?"

"Colonel," Boggs said, "you need to ask an FBI-trained profiler to have a good look at Dowling. They're taught to predict a subject's actions based on a profile which is built from evidence that's often a lot scantier than the information publicly available on Dowling. A profiler's educated guess would carry a lot more weight than mine, sir."

"I see," Lennox replied.

Diarwen asked, "Have we anyone with those skills within the Sectors?"

Prowl said, "Olivia Hunt of Sector 11 was formerly a CIA psychologist. Could she provide us with the necessary report?"

Optimus said, "I will speak to Director Mearing about it. Right now, that is all we can do; we will see."

With that, the meeting broke up, and a troubled group of people went on their way. Lennox and Ironhide left together, talking about base security in light of the new information. Boggs had patients. Jazz and Prowl went to their den to work their information-gathering sorcery.

Hot Rod, who had kept his vocalizer off and his audials on during the meeting, now asked if the bikers really could threaten them, and Drift explained rocket launchers to him.

Then Drift excused himself to Optimus and returned to Excellion to further educate himself about biker gangs, mad preachers, and the wild world of American politics. His 3iC remained behind, anxious to speak to Optimus, barely containing himself while the room cleared.

Graham departed to get busy with the administrative work that filled most of a 2iC's workday. Sides reported to Optimus, saying, "I'm scheduled to train with NEST troops the rest of the joor. Do you have any additional duties for me today, sir?"

"I do not believe so. If you have the fuel reserves, then the Wreckers would appreciate volunteers up at the work site," Optimus said.

"I can do that," Sides replied with his easy grin. He sent a glyph requesting permission to leave, and Optimus replied with another granting it.

Optimus turned to Hot Rod and smiled. "You have a question, Rodi?"

"Yes, sir. You said that you saw the frame of Primus. None of the priests I saw as a youngling ever talked about that."

Optimus ex-vented, and pinched the bridge of his nose. He said, "I find that extraordinary, a true failure on their parts, and I have no explanation for it. Even the smallest sparklings were to be told what they could comprehend at their age."

"Sir, I wasn't very big when there were still temples and priests, but Wrecker clans never had temples of our own. We moved around, wherever the work was. Whichever temple was closest, that priest would come every three or four orn, and hold a service, and say whatever blessings we needed said. The only other time they came out was to pray over the dead, whenever someone got caught in a collapse or something like that. We didn't usually see the same priest twice in a row. And then the war started, and, well, we didn't have priests after that."

Optimus said, "Perhaps that explains the priests' shortcomings, but Cybertron itself failed you, Hot Rod. Nobot is beneath Primus' notice. We are all His creations."

"Does this mean I need to study to be a _priest?"_

"Study, yes. I never took my final vows, and have never felt led by Primus to do so. Among the priesthood, I am a senior acolyte. Burnout is two levels above me. Learn all that you can, and leave the rest to Primus."

"What is His tomb like?"

"It is constructed of the natural stone of Cybertron, rough-dressed. The tomb was massive. Do you remember the modern Temple of Iacon, or the government buildings?" At Hot Rod's nod, he went on. "Those buildings were clearly influenced by it. I was guided on my pilgrimage by Lio Prime, who told me that we know almost nothing of those levels. They may have been built by our earliest forebears, or possibly by the Quintessons before they discovered how to call sparks from the All-Spark to give us life. This building had been used as a temple since the earliest joor of our civilization, however. The natural bedrock of the planet made up its floor." The Prime paused, and both Rodi and Diarwen felt a wash of deep stillness move through him. "But more important than anything I could tell you about what I saw there was the incredible sense of peace. I knew then what the word 'holy' meant."

Hot Rod's optics grew bright with wonder.

Optimus said, "The frame that Primus was using at that time was very large, at least three times my height, but that was not excessively tall for the bots of that age. Several of the original Primes were twice my height, and Prima may have been taller than Primus. We have engineered our frames to be smaller and more efficient since that time. Lio said that when Primus left that frame, Cybertron itself became his new frame, and I believe that could have been true."

"So—did Primus not come into existence until after the Quintessons forged our first ancestors? Was He once one of us?"

"No. Primus existed long before any civilization arose in the galaxy. But He was not confined to a frame. He chose to manifest in physical form in order to prevent Unicron from destroying the galaxy, and perhaps eventually, all life in the universe. All that we know is that He succeeded in sealing His brother—we do not know what that means. But He was badly injured, and came to Cybertron to lay aside that frame. Lio said it was because the All-Spark was there. Within the vorn, Prima was sparked, and soon after that, the rest of the original Primes."

"Then how...how could there have been dark energon on Cybertron?"

"That is a perceptive question. I did not think to ask it until much later, and I have only Sentinel's word for it—but, given his association with the Fallen, he may have been in a better position than any to know. He said that Primus' frame was contaminated with it after His battle with Unicron, and that He cleansed Himself in an energon pool before entering the temple. That contaminated pool was the source of all the dark energon on our homeworld."

Hot Rod said, "Were only acolytes permitted to go there?"

Prime shook his helm. "No, certainly not. The journey was long, arduous and dangerous, as you can imagine—I do not need to tell a Wrecker what lurked below our cities and the commonly-traversed layers just under them. It was one thing for a well-armed company of priests and acolytes to travel in the company of a Prime and his Protector, but quite another for ordinary pilgrims. They were encouraged to wait until they could travel under the protection of such an organized party from the temple. But no one was ever barred from making the attempt. Should misfortune strike, there are worse ways to deactivate than in a search for Primus. A very old and devout mech who had lived in the Temple for as long as I can recall chose to travel with us. After our visit to the Tomb, we made camp nearby to recharge before beginning the long climb to the surface. When we awakened, the old mech had deactivated during the night. He was smiling. I believe he went from Lio's arms to those of Primus. We found catacombs near the temple where generations of mecha had been interred, and we entombed him there, on holy ground."

"And now...it's lost to us...because Megatron and Sentinel..."

Diarwen said, "It was my hand―"

Her guilt and pain caused both of them to turn to her. While Optimus reached out to enfold her in his fields, Hot Rod said, "No, my Lady. Sentinel and Megatron committed sacrilege. They would have destroyed both worlds. You never saw Cybertron. When we left, it was already a dying planet. I don't see how Primus could still have been there—or anywhere near it, for that matter. When you're in a deactivating frame, and you have a chance to leave it, you reformat. I think if Primus wasn't here any more—if He left the Universe entirely—we'd know, somehow. But, whatever happened, I don't think He was on Cybertron anymore when it was—when whatever happened at the Battle of Chicago happened."

Optimus said, "You have a Prime's instincts, Rodi. You are right. Primus still is among us. I have drawn Him down in ritual since Cybertron was pulled into the vortex. But where He resides now? I do not know that. No one does. Perhaps He is here on Earth."

Hot Rod looked at him, doubt writ large in the blue optics. "An organic planet? How could that be?"

"Organics do not have sparks, yet they have spirits as immortal as ours. Who can say what is possible for a god? Diarwen, you did what was needful. Hot Rod is right. Primus would not have had you sacrifice billions of innocent lives for a barren wasteland, nor, indeed, for a frame that He had long ago discarded. Sentinel and Megatron alone bear the blame for the loss of our history, our past. We owe you, and Earth's Goddess, our future."

Prime's glance had not wavered from Diarwen, and Hot Rod realized that he was intruding. "I—with your permission, Prime, Drift or Bulkhead will be looking for me to get to work. May I be excused?"

"Yes, you may. Good joor, Rodi."

"Good joor, sir."

That left Diarwen and Optimus. He said, "Beloved, you have done what you can for the Eastlanders. just as you did for your planet and our own. Now, have faith that our companions will do their best as well."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Optimus. If only we could get those children out of there."

He sent a glyph to close his office door behind Hot Rod, then offered her his hand, and lifted her to his spark. "We cannot simply take it upon ourselves to remove someone's offspring from their home. There are procedures for such things, and we must follow them."

She said, head against his chestplates, "I know. But they are little ones, _acushla_. They are innocent little ones."

"And there is a place in the Pit for anyone who harms them."

"There was a time I would have sent those people to find it." Diarwen straightened, and wiped her eyes.

"My fierce Sidhe. Your solutions are more direct, and at times, might be more sensible. But we are bound by the laws here."

"Aye. That works for the best…except when it does not. Brigit grant that this is not one such."

Deliberately, he lightened the conversation. "Do you have a busy day planned today?"

"We are still working on the translations. Milestrina has provided us with a treasure trove of children's literature, which is wonderful, but we are working madly to translate them at the same rate that the little ones are reading them. Raf Esquivel has been a great help, but his time is limited by his school work. I think it is good for D'andre to have Raf as a role model."

Optimus asked, "Is Raf also autistic?"

"Not autistic per se. He has been diagnosed with Asperger's syndrome, which is related to autism: serious, but not as catastrophic. The child is absolutely brilliant. In his case, the condition is far less limiting. Many, many people such as Raf go on to live highly successful lives, but they still deal with social challenges as a result of Asperger's. Raf has an innate understanding of D'andre, perhaps moreso than any of us. He can reach D'andre, and when he does so, they speak the same language. And being able to help D'andre has helped Raf develop more confidence. Given his background—his parents pushed him off on the Figueroas when they got a divorce because neither wished to deal with him—the situation has worked out well for all concerned. I have been trying to keep him busy, for with both his uncle and Bumblebee on a mission, the lad is under a great deal of stress."

"He has grown close to Bumblebee?"

"Bumblebee has been helping us with the translations as well. He and Raf both enjoy computer games. I think with Raf, Bumblebee feels secure enough to act his age."

"Then I am greatly indebted to Raf."

She smiled at that, and he felt her gather herself together. "Shall I bring lunch here?"

"I will look forward to it."

When she had gone, Optimus sat at his desk for a moment, before putting a call through to Director Mearing.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Charlotte Mearing was just getting back from lunch, DC time, when her secretary informed her that she had a call from Optimus Prime. She turned on her vidphone screen and made sure that she didn't have mustard on her blouse before asking her to put the call through.

She had just finished a long lunchtime call with Simmons. They were beginning their search, and so far had run into nothing more dangerous than the tropical heat. She was happy to hear that, but at the same time, not particularly reassured by it. Things could change very quickly. Not for the first time, she dearly wished she could unchain herself from her desk and join them in the field.

Mearing could read Optimus fairly well in person, but not so much over the vid phone. Therefore they got the pleasantries out of the way, and Jazz flashed a green light in the lower left corner of their screens to indicate that their connection was secure, before she realized the Prime was concerned.

Mearing asked, "What is it, Optimus?"

"I met with the protest leaders yesterday to determine if there is anything that we can do to defuse that situation. I believe I did make some headway. Mr. Ross and his contingent have abandoned the protest. The situation with the Tea Party and the racially-motivated gangs is as we thought it to be; they are there for reasons of gain. Each defines that differently. But I believe that we have stumbled onto what may be a serious problem in the offing with the Eastland Church."

"Do you believe that they present a credible threat?"

"To us? No. But, to themselves and to any law enforcement officers who might become involved with them? Definitely. It is my personal belief that, if we do nothing, we will eventually see tragic headlines about that compound. Dr. Boggs told me that she could not rule out the possibility that Dowling is dangerous. She has made the suggestion that we ask Dr. Hunt to review publicly available recordings of Reverend Dowling's diatribes, comparing them over time. Given Dr. Hunt's training as a profiler, we both feel that her assessment of the situation will be more reliable than our own."

Mearing's chair squeaked as she leaned back. "Have Prowl brief her. I'll find out from my contacts at Homeland Security if there's already a dossier on them, and if anyone currently has them under surveillance. I trust your hunches, but if you have some hard evidence that we're looking at another Waco here, it would go a long way towards getting people off their asses before we have a disaster on our hands."

"Unfortunately, I have none."

"Of course not. That would make our jobs too easy."

"Indeed."

"I've been authorized to assign additional troops if you need them to secure the base."

"With the protestors' numbers reduced following the hawks' departure, I believe that the civilian law enforcement can deal with threat of a mob forming. If they were to attempt to storm the base with NEST securing it, the outcome would be in no doubt, but Primus forbid such a thing should happen. If they see large numbers of reinforcements arrive, that could be enough to touch off the very problems we hope to avoid."

Mearing nodded. "Let's hope that their organization fragmented when Ross jumped ship."

"I suspect that the Tea Party will stay until something else distracts the media, and that will happen sooner or later. As for the gangs, I cannot see them neglecting their illegal enterprises for long. That will at least reduce their numbers."

"Might be a good time for a few police raids in the gangs' home territories to draw their attention. And we've arranged things to occupy the media before. I'll work on it."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Olivia Hunt entered the New York NEST HQ and stopped at the OD's desk for the final security check before continuing to the admin area. With none of the bots in residence, the building echoed hollowly with her footsteps as she trekked its length and climbed the metal stairs to the admin catwalk. This area had been designed to allow humans and Cybertronians to converse at eye level, and several human-sized communications stations were located up here. This was one of the few places that secure communications with the Autobots was possible.

A strawberry blond young man with blue eyes behind silver aviator frames, the name Warner on his ID tag, and a tech sergeant's insignia on the sleeve of his uniform assisted her with the comms station, then returned to his duties.

Hunt dialed the Mission City base and requested a secure line. There was a thirty second delay before Prowl appeared on the screen, and she knew that her call had been thoroughly screened for security issues before the connection was made.

"Good morning, Dr. Hunt."

"Good morning, Prowl. I'm at the NEST HQ, and they tell me that this line is secure. How can I assist you?"

"We have a name, and that person has a very large media-clip file. We need this ASAP, and I'm sure you'll see why when you open up that file. Once your report is submitted we'll need to have you attend the next day's staff meeting by telepresence, which will occur at one PM your time," Prowl said.

"Very well," Olivia Hunt said. She looked at the size of the file Prowl sent her, got out her phone, and had her secretary cancel all of her private sessions for the week. Then she called her daughters: they'd be on their own for at least the next couple of days.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Reverend Horton Hanford Dowling scowled at the four demons.

The four demons, all dressed in the uniform of the Clark County Sheriff's Office, did not scowl back, and in fact only two of them were facing him. These two maintained a neutral expression, watching the tiny little old man strut up to them.

One said, "May we help you, sir?"

"You can tell me why you are here."

"For your protection, sir."

The demon-deputy stood four-square in the dust beside the road that ran to the other demons' base, where the robots…lived? Surely not. "I need no protection but the Lord's," Dowling said, drawing himself proudly to his full height: he looked the deputy right in the collarbone.

The deputy actually smiled down at him. "Yes, sir. Consider me His deputy in this matter."

Dowling gave the man an extremely odd look, and turned his back on the three men, one woman (dressed like a man anathema…ignore the hardness in my flesh anathema it is the whore beside him it must be that whore ...I obey the Lord but the unruly flesh does not I must fast and purify myself as I am unworthy _no_ the Lord has chosen me and only me to know the truth) and their two cars, parked behind one another along the highway that lead to the desert.

Dowling told himself he wasn't fooled: the demons were there to prevent the Eastland Church from doing the work of the Lord. He returned to his camp, brushing off the followers who approached him.

He had entirely ignored the fact that only two of the deputies faced his camp, while the other two faced the rest of the protesters.

"This sure is the middle of nowhere," said the woman.

"'S true of everywhere in Nevada but Reno and Vegas," snorted God's deputy.

They resumed their surveillance. Several very young teenage boys were helping the men break down the tents, while wives and children old enough to help got lunch spread out on several long tables. Some of the older children read to the younger ones; Bible tales, so far as God's deputy could make out.

The women wore long dresses with long sleeves, a few with sweaters over them. It wasn't warm in January in Nevada, not even in the pale noonday sun.

"You ever consider joinin' one'a these little parties?" he said to his partner.

She snorted. "No. Look around you. The boys get to play frontiersmen breaking camp. What do the women get to do? Make lunch. Women's work. After they've eaten, and you wait, the men'll eat first, I'll bet, the women get to heat the water to wash the dishes, and then they get to pack 'em all up to leave. No, this's a man's world, and the men're all nuts. I'll pass, thanks." She looked out over the camp, a circle of pickups defining the edge, and nothing really inside it but sand and tents. She said, "You?"

"Nah. They think God's an asshole, basically, and I don't, not since He got me out of Afghanistan with all the parts in working order."

"Somethin' to be said for that.-You know the other thing that's always struck me about these folks, there's nobody at all laughing or having a good time."

For answer, God's deputy pointed a thick finger at two young teenage boys, who smiled and joked with one another as they took down a tent. Then one of the men (had a beard a goat could camp out in, Coke-bottle glasses, and a very expensive watch, the deputy noted) snarled at them, and they dropped their heads to their work.

"Makes my point," the woman said. "They were laughin', and they _might_ have been enjoyin' themselves, so old beardly-weirdly shut 'em down."

The two boys who had been laughing exchanged glances. One said, "Shad, you seen that Transformer who rescued you in Illinois?"

"Just through the gates," the other boy said. "Here he comes again."

Old Weirdly-Beardly approached. They fell silent, keeping at their work.

(End Part Twelve)


	13. Chapter 13

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Thirteen

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sideswipe knelt by the table around which Diarwen, Monique Epps, and Rafael Esquivel were working on translations. Monique said, "Hello, Sides! I'm glad you stopped by. We've found a glyph here and we're not sure of the exact translation. It looks like the base glyph for 'run,' without a combining diacritical for the velocity glyph, but we're not sure-"

"Let me see." The tall silver warrior read part of a book he realized had been a childhood favorite of his own and said, "Oh, OK, this story is about a bot with a hexapedal root mode. It's used exactly the same way, except it refers to bots with six legs, like Percy, not two like me. Glyph, combining diacrital, then numerical glyph for velocity. Without the velocity modifier, it's another way to write 'standing still.'"

"Are there other root glyphs for different numbers of legs?" Raf was out of school today with an ear infection, but he was too bored, and too worried about Fig, to simply lie in bed waiting for it to be time for his next dose of antibiotics. He had begged his aunt to help Mo and Diarwen with the translation; she and they had capitulated. Today, though, Raf had a heavy turtleneck sweater on, not just his usual v-neck, and he was flushed.

"For all standard frame types," Sideswipe corrected. "Not all root modes have legs, or depend on walking for mobility. But they're all a family of related glyphs. If you've seen one you know how they all work."

Diarwen said, "Thank you, Sideswipe. I will ask Optimus to add them to the lexicon."

Sideswipe told them, "Speaking of Optimus, that's why I'm here, Diarwen. He needs you in his office at ten o'clock. Dr. Hunt's report is ready."

"I will be there."

Diarwen looked at the clock on the datapad. She had time to translate another sentence or two before she excused herself and took a leisurely stroll out the front of the main hangar and across to Hangar C where Optimus' quarters and office were located.

No one had said anything about secrecy where their concerns about the Eastlanders were concerned, but Diarwen had not wished to bring it up in front of Raf. Acting as though it were something routine seemed the best course of action.

When she arrived in Ops, she found that the large vidscreen on the wall had been divided to allow two conversations. One half showed the NEST logo; Charlotte Mearing was on the other, talking to Optimus and Prowl.

Jazz and Ironhide had a Google satellite map of the Eastlanders' compound on a third screen. Several houses and barns surrounded a church set on the highest ground on the farm, surrounded by a patchwork of tilled fields, woodlots and fenced pastures. To Diarwen's eye, it looked like any small barony from hundreds of years ago. There were vehicles on the farm—these people were not averse to technology as were the Amish—but they still made more use of horses than machinery.

Were it not for their hateful beliefs, which twisted all that they touched, the Eastlanders might have had a very good life there. But the feeling she got from the image was of sickness and decay—a tree, seemingly healthy, with an ultimately deadly rot at its core.

A rot that, left unaddressed, would reach out to other trees, and drag them down too.

She turned away from the screen as Dr. Hunt came online; Optimus moved to the back of the group so that Mearing and Hunt would be able to see everyone.

Hunt's jacket was rumpled and there were dark circles under her eyes. Diarwen did not need to see her aura to read that she was profoundly troubled.

Optimus said, "Good joor, Dr. Hunt."

"And to you, Prime. Director Mearing."

"Doctor."

"Have you reached a conclusion?" Optimus asked.

"As much as possible from the information publicly available to me, which included video of Reverend Dowling and his followers, as well as written accounts of several former cult members who have repudiated Dowling's doctrine. Dowling's hatred of homosexuals is well-documented. Prior to founding his church, Dowling had two brushes with the law, and both incidents were fights with gay men whom he claimed had propositioned him. In each of these cases, Dowling and the other individual were both arrested and charged with disorderly behavior. The first time, Dowling spent a night in jail and had to pay a $100 fine. The second time, he preached a hellfire-and-brimstone sermon to the judge, who was not appreciative. That time, in addition to thirty days in jail for the fight, he served another thirty days for contempt of court, and the fine was much more substantial."

"So we are dealing with a man with a minor history of violence," Optimus said.

"Minor, yes, and begun late in life, about the time of his mid-life crisis." Hunt flashed a glance through the group. "If you are not familiar with that human phenomenon, a mid-life crisis strikes every human being somewhere between the ages of forty-five and fifty. It's a time of looking back and either reclaiming or finally letting go of those things the person has always wished she or he had done. Dowling's hatred of homosexuals is strong proof that he himself is gay and cannot bear the thought of that; by turning that hatred outward, he can deflect his realization of the source of it."

"So by attacking them," Lennox said thoughtfully, "he's trying to purge that part of himself."

"I feel confident in saying so, yes," Hunt replied. "And he will become increasingly vicious as each succeeding attempt fails."

Optimus said thoughtfully, "So that brings us to…when?"

"His second release from jail," Hunt replied. "What he refers to as his 'ministry' began then, and he sent the first of his published op-ed letters to the local paper, excoriating the government on no very logical grounds. Shortly thereafter, several of his neighbors founded the cult with him, and he assumed leadership. Apparently that was without debate. Any shrink will tell you that real psychopathology carries with it an extreme force of personality. That's probably true here."

Nods went around Ops.

Hunt squared a stack of papers before her. "At first, while his ideas were extremely distasteful, I saw nothing in his public appearances to indicate that he was irrational or delusional. His religious pronouncements were based on his interpretation of scripture, and his sermons mostly delineated an extreme version of positions taken by mainstream churches.

"He began to show signs of delusional behavior after the attacks of 9/11. It was then that he began to refer to the voices of angels, and to the Word of God being made manifest to him. These references have become more common and more frank. In one recent street-corner sermon, for example, he states the angel of the Lord has revealed to him that the righteous shall destroy the wicked in their own habitations. When a reporter asked him what he meant by that, he seemed taken aback, his eyes focused on the reporter, and he replied by quoting Leviticus—chapter seven, verse twenty-one, if you're interested; it has to do with being cut off if you touch an unclean thing—rather than giving a direct answer."

"Evasive?" asked Optimus.

But Hunt shook her head, looking even tireder. "Not consciously so. More driven. —I do think that that particular scripture came to Dowling because he's stated that the Lord has revealed to him that Cybertronians are abominations, a mockery of God's creation of humans in His image, who should be driven off, or more properly destroyed."

"Do you feel that, in the interview with the reporter, Dowling was referring to perpetrating a violent crime?" Optimus asked.

Hunt sighed. "I can't rule that out as a possible future action, but I have no evidence that any such crimes have been committed. I strongly suggest going through police reports of hate crimes against gays in the St. Louis area, as well as in cities where protests have taken place, to see if there is a pattern of crimes whose commission coincides with the Eastlanders' visits, or with their residence on the farm with the St. Louis crimes."

Prowl said, "I will look into that, Doctor."

"Thank you. I definitely consider the Eastland Church to be a potential threat to NEST operations. But I can't say that they have the wherewithal to be a _credible_ threat. It is my recommendation that they be placed on the Homeland Security watch list, and that any large purchases of fertilizer or other dangerous chemicals be monitored to make sure those things are actually used on their farm. I also recommend a review of Mission City's security to ensure that the cult could not introduce an IED using any vehicle that commonly enters the base."

"We'll take that in hand," Graham said, with a glance at Lennox, and a nod from him. "Afghanistan's taught us a lot."

"Unfortunately," Hunt replied. "But that's not the only possibility. Other cults have been known to use chemical weapons in terrorist attacks, such as the Aum Shinrikyo subway attack on Tokyo in 1995. While an attack such as that would target humans rather than Cybertronians, Dowling has a history of considering the friends and family members of gay people to be just as targetable as the gays themselves. We cannot rule out the possibility that the cult would in fact act against NEST or NEST dependents."

The room grew frosty. Optimus said, "What about the threat that they clearly represent to themselves? Do you feel that they are at risk of a Dowling-led mass suicide?"

"Optimus, this is where my personal opinion and my professional opinion differ. I have no legally admissible evidence that these people are an immediate threat to themselves or to others. There is nothing that I could turn over to prosecutors that would enable them to go to court and get a warrant to search that compound, or to arrest anyone."

Lennox said, "So our hands are tied."

Hunt's expression turned bleak. "Legally, yes. But, personally? I've drawn a reading on that place, so has Jarrell, and we concur. The compound is a spiritual cesspool, and I don't know one thing that we can do about it."

Mearing said, "I can flag them as a high priority surveillance target. Homeland security can watch them to see if they present a threat to NEST. All that I can do is hope that, if they make preparations to kill themselves, we'll catch them before they can follow through on it. But, I have to tell you, they're on a farm, so any such purchase could be viewed by a court as perfectly legitimate."

Prowl said, "Since they are considered a possible threat to NEST, may I have access to data from that surveillance? It may be that I would be able to enhance any images or sound files and detect something that a human analyst using your technology might miss."

"I'll make sure that you get copies, Prowl."

"Thank you, Director."

Diarwen asked, "Is there nothing more that we can do?"

Mearing said, "I'm afraid not. They're American citizens on American soil. I need proof that meets the standard of probable cause for a warrant."

Optimus said, "Someone is going to have to die before anything will be done."

Mearing accepted the rebuke and replied quietly, "You've said to me that freedom is the right of all living beings. In the society that you hope to build, how far will that freedom extend? How will you balance the rights of the individual with ensuring public safety?"

Optimus said, "Those are good questions, Director. I admit that I do not have definitive answers for you."

"Neither do we," Mearing said. "It's fortunate that Dowling has given us as much cause to put him under surveillance as he has. If he wasn't a potential threat to NEST, all we could do would be turn it over to local authorities."

"Who could do nothing," said Optimus.

"Yes, I'm afraid that's true. But I'm also afraid of what Dr. Hunt found there, Optimus," Mearing said.

"So are we, Director. I thank you."

"Prime," Mearing acknowledged, with a courteous nod. "Thank you, Dr. Hunt."

"I wish I could have been more help," Hunt said, and her screen went black.

Optimus put his servo on Prowl's shoulder briefly. For the moment, only Prowl and Jazz could do anything, and they were confined by the human limits on hacking.

Diarwen privately concurred with Optimus. She was afraid it was going to take a needless death before they would be allowed to act. But they had done what they could—all of them, including Charlotte Mearing and Olivia Hunt. She shared a look of sorrowful acceptance with Optimus. Their fields laced lightly for a brief moment; then she went back to the commons.

If Raf Esquivel was still as sick as before, and unless he ate lunch, she meant to call his aunt Stefania and see if he needed to go to see Dr. Parker, or if Diarwen should fix him some herbal tea to help with the infection.

When she got back, Mo asked, "Diarwen, would you see if you think Raf's fever is up?"

Diarwen put her hand to the boy's forehead. "I cannot tell if it is or not, but Raf, you are very warm. Is that sweater not growing too hot for you as the day becomes warmer?"

"It isn't warmer. I'm cold."

"That is the fever. Come, let us find a nurse to take your temperature. It may be that Dr. Parker will wish for us to do something differently."

_"__Si__, __senora__," _Raf replied, and then she knew he was feeling very poorly indeed. Unlike his uncle, who spoke perfect English when he wanted to but liberally seasoned his sentences with Spanish words to aggravate his squadmates, Rafael rarely changed languages in midstream.

They walked past the busy admin area to Medbay and Diarwen explained Raf's situation to the ward clerk. After a little while, one of the nurses checked his temperature and looked in his ear. She entered the results on her datapad. A few moments after that, Dr. Parker stuck her head out of her office. "Raf, your fever is still under 102 and the infection isn't getting any worse. I know you feel really lousy, but you have to give the antibiotic time to work. Make sure you take every dose on time until it's all gone, and call me right away if your fever goes over 102 degrees."

"_Si__, __Doctora_."

Diarwen said, "Alicia, I have some lemon slices and ginger in honey made up, and I can infuse olive oil with garlic to ease the pain in his ear. Would that be all right?"

Instead of answering her directly, Parker said, "Raf, you have allergies. Do you have any trouble eating pizza?"

"No."

"That should be all right then."

"Thank you, Alicia." Diarwen called Stefania to get her permission as well, then told Raf, "Let us go out back and I will find someone to give us a ride."

Raf gave her a grateful look. Diarwen collected Skids, who drove down the building A corridor to drop them off in front of Diarwen's apartment, then zipped back out again.

Raf sighed in relief as soon as the door shut out all the noise. Neither his houseful of cousins, nor the busy commons, had been quiet, and the noise had not done well by his earache.

Diarwen got Raf situated on the sofa, with his laptop bag on the coffee table nearby, and took a mason jar of golden honey with slices of lemon and ginger root in it from the refrigerator.

"What does that do, besides smell good?" Raf asked.

"It tastes as good as it smells, and more importantly, it deals with colds. Have a teaspoon of it now"—she brought it to the boy—"and another in hot water as tea, though that will take longer to heat."

She detoured briefly to the bathroom to collect an oil burner. Returning to Raf's seat, she added essential oil to it, and lit its candle.

"That smells like cough drops."

"A very good observation. It is eucalyptus, for that is a common ingredient in cough drops."

She started the kettle, and rummaged for the garlic press while she waited for it to whistle. "Now, garlic is effective against infections. You are not going to eat the garlic this time, though. We are going to make ear drops." She also set out a small frying pan, a jar, a strainer and a coffee filter.

"May I have something to eat? I'm hungry, but it hurts to chew."

"It will, until the swelling from that infection reduces. Let us see what I have. I have plain yogurt, but you would not want milk with that fever and congestion. Applesauce?"

Raf nodded, and she gave him dish of it, with cinnamon to help the inflammation, and got out the jar of honey as well. As an "aspie" Raf avoided processed sugar, but a little extra honey would do no harm and the calories would only help, since he was not eating a lot.

"What does fever have to do with milk?"

"Does it not make your stomach upset?"

"No, I've never heard that. But _abuelita _has always said not to drink it when my chest is stuffy."

"That is odd, and very interesting. I am continually learning new things about people from different places."

"I was reading an article the other day about how people's dietary requirements are different based on where their ancestors came from."

He had only eaten a few bites when the teakettle whistled, and she brewed his tea.

He indicated the mason jar. "What's in that?"

"Lemon, ginger root, and honey. I begin by washing the lemon and ginger root, then slicing them very thinly and putting them into the mason jar. Some people fill the jar and then pour honey over the lemon and ginger, but filling the jar in stages also allows me to charge it in stages, and with my magic damaged as it is, that is necessary for me now. I cannot use my own magic, I can only Ask that it be charged. This works more slowly."

The boy's eyes changed, and Diarwen was impressed. Not even a feverish ear infection could stop Rafael Esquivez from learning.

"Once the jar is full, I put the lid on tightly and put it in the refrigerator. I turn the jar over every day, to make sure everything mingles properly. This is very good for sore throats and colds. It is soothing, and these are also things which are good against infections. Honey, very much so, also the ginger and lemon. And lemon is an astringent which helps to clear your throat."

"I have heard you say that coltsfoot is dangerous, but my _abuelita_ has often given it to me for my earaches."

"Ah, coltsfoot. Yes, that is a traditional remedy of my people for earaches especially, and it works very well for us. Your people picked up its use from us, and in a time when you did not have so many alternatives, I think perhaps it was a good thing in spite of its side effects. You see, until not long ago, there were no antibiotics, so if an infection became serious the patient was very likely to die. Therefore, clearing up the infection was the better risk to take. But recently we have discovered that coltsfoot is, in humans, toxic to the liver. And now there are other things that we can use. So we do not use it for your people any more. You see, herbology, as with any other natural study, is always changing as we learn more."

"Tio Jorje complains about that sometimes. About being in NEST, though, not about herbology."

"Does he? Well, it is good to know about coltsfoot, though you should avoid it as much as you can. One day you may have an ear infection and have no other way to treat it. If you ever need to use it, then do so at the first sign of trouble, to limit the amount of it that you must take. And then, at the first opportunity, tell your doctor that you have done so. They may wish to test your liver to see if any damage which needs treatment has been done."

Raf neatly demolished the last of the applesauce, and smiled over holding a cup of hot tea in his hands. "_Abuelita_ does not trust doctors, or science."

"Ah, but I would not be here now, were it not for science and doctors." She set him up with the garlic press, a sharp knife and a few cloves of garlic. "When you finish your tea and not before, begin by peeling the garlic, as I showed you when we made spaghetti sauce. Then put the cloves in the garlic press, and press them into this dish. Be careful, that is a very sharp knife."

While he worked, Diarwen told him about her run-in with the two old men who had poisoned her. "Had not Dr. Parker invented a way to do dialysis treatments on me, I would have died. Herbology is only one part of the greater study of the healing arts, just as a magical mindset is only one way of looking at the world. Science offers us another. The problems begin when any of us begins to believe that our preferred way of seeing the universe around us is the best or the only way. Follow your path, but respect that of others, for they may save your life one day."

"My _abuelita _says that medicine is best for emergencies, but herbs and stuff keep the doctors away.—Here is the garlic. Now what do we do?"

"You will stay there on the couch, for this next step is a little tricky," Diarwen said, collecting the small dish. "We wish to heat the garlic in a very little oil—but not to fry it. You see, I wish to infuse this oil with the benefits of the garlic, for it is the oil that I will use—but if I overheat it, or cook it at the right temperature for too long, I will ruin it. I will teach you to do this one day when you are feeling better. When you have washed the garlic off your hands, I will make you another cup of tea."

"Okay," the boy said listlessly, and that alone told her how sick he was. Fever-bright eyes remained on her, though, and she continued, "It is easier to cold-infuse this, but that can take a week or two, and you do not want to wait for it, so we will use this method today. Once it is infused, I will strain the oil through the strainer lined with the coffee filter, and after that I will dilute the filtered oil in more olive oil in a dropper bottle. This you will keep in your shirt pocket for a little while so that it will warm to your body temperature. Then you will put two or three drops in your ear every four hours. It will ease the pain, and the garlic also is good against infections. Now, I have some already made up, but I put lavender and sage essential oils in mine. I do not know if you are allergic to those things, and it would be bad to find out that you are by using them on you."

Raf smiled a small, pale version of his usual incandescent grin. "What do you use it for?"

"Iron burns, mostly. Large ones are a serious danger. Small ones are a painful nuisance, for they will not heal by magic and they take their own time to heal naturally. It is also good for the simple scrapes and so forth that _will_ happen in training."

"I see. So this oil that you are making is good first aid for minor things, not just for earaches?"

"Yes, _but_. Only for _minor_ things. Do not put anything greasy on a wound that the doctor will have to see. That grease will have to come off before the injury can be treated, which will hurt. Also, make sure you clean any burn or any wound that breaks the skin well before putting anything oily on it. You could seal in bacteria which will cause infection if the garlic does not kill it, and it is not intended to kill all of the germs. That requires alcohol, or honey, or other things that doctors use."

"So the honey and lemon stuff would be good."

"Yes, though the lemon might burn. But again, do not put anything sticky on something the doctor must see. That would be no fun to remove either."

Raf sipped his second cup of tea while she finished making the garlic oil, and she let him look through her copy of Culpepper's _Complete __Herbal _for a while. Then, as she had expected, he became sleepy, and napped on the couch with his sealed bottle of garlic oil in his shirt pocket.

Diarwen got her datapad and went back to work on the translations, chatting with Monique as she worked until her friend logged off to do play therapy with D'andre.

She reflected upon how mothering D'andre was a full-time job—a career at which Monique Epps excelled. And she watched over a very lonely, gifted boy who napped on her couch: whose needs were different from, but just as urgent as, D'andre's.

And, then, she thought about the children of the Eastland cult. She wished with all her heart that everyone could suddenly wake up and realize how precious their children were. If people thought truly about their responsibilities to their children, there would be no more wars of aggression, no more abuse, very little crime. The little ones had always been the first to suffer from all those things.

"May it be peace among the Eastlanders," she said to Brigit.

She felt no answer, but she was not willing to conclude that meant she hadn't gotten one.

(End Part Thirteen)


	14. Chapter 14

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Fourteen

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Eastland Church Compound)

"Sheep be damned," David Grybowski muttered under his breath.

Shad White pretended not to hear, but couldn't stop a giggle. David gave him a slant-eyed sideways glance and his lopsided smile, and they went on with their job.

Today that was looking for sheep stranded by the late-winter storm which had briefly engulfed the Eastland compound in cold weather, rain, sleet, and finally snow. Such storms weren't uncommon in January, but this had been a severe one.

Sheep could die in weather like that. The compound's rams were safe in their paddocks, but the ewes, most pregnant, were at pasture. Sheep being exceptionally silly creatures, those who lacked the sense to come in to their barn had to be brought in. When Shad and David set out, four had been missing. Four teams of two each had gone looking for them.

The boys were assigned to search The Gully, so named because it was exactly that. It bisected the largest pasture, farthest from the living quarters, and sheep had been known to tumble into it.

The weather was easing a bit, but despite his heaviest wool shirt and a fleece-lined waterproof jacket, Shad was shivering.

"You sick or somethin'?" David said.

Everything David said had the cadence of poetry, Shad thought, and then, because that opened doors he wasn't ready to walk through at thirteen, he said hastily, "Nah, I'm just cold. How come you aren't?"

David shrugged. "Fatter'n you," he said.

Two years younger, Shad was already taller than David, leaned down through reaching his adult height.

David cocked his dark head. "You hear that?"

"Yep," Shad said. He set his pack, which held hay and some supplies they might need if the sheep had lambed, securely on his shoulders, and found a way down the steep slope of the side of the gully. David followed.

The gully bottom, once a stream bed, was flat and sandy, and they had only to negotiate the various thickets to come nearer and nearer the faint "baaa" that David heard.

Sheep normally are handled twice a year to be sheared and get a vet check, possibly a third time for lambing if they don't manage this on their own. None of these procedures are pleasant for the sheep, so they don't become tame. Located in the middle of an enormous thicket of kudzu and blackberry, immobilized by thorns tangled in its wool, this sheep thrashed and baa'd more frantically at their approach.

Shad stopped and put his hands on his hips. "Well, it would be in there, wouldn't it," he said.

David snorted. "'Course it would. You know, when we have lamb or mutton, I'm always glad to stick my fork in it. If there's something dumber than a sheep, I don't know what that might be."

"Two sheep," Shad said, and they both laughed and set to work.

They reached the sheep, which promptly tried to bite David – he slapped its muzzle aside; sheep bites could carry a disease called "orf" – and then the animal kicked Shad. Shad got out the muzzle and the boys cut enough of the brambles to lay the sheep flat and hog-tie the creature, then they took out their wool shears and began the patient work of cutting the sheep, still attempting to thrash and bleat, free of brambles.

Two voices intruded on the scene from above, though the thicket was high and dense enough to hide the boys from sight. They identified the voices easily enough: the two eldest Nielson brothers.

Neither boy had much to do with the two older men. The Nielsons were a large clan within the Eastland compound, encompassing six of nineteen trailer homes. Zephariah Nielson, the clan patriarch, was the father to Eldon and Martin; Zeph was the Reverend Dowling's right hand man, and Eldon his father's aide-de-camp.

"Great Jesus, was I glad to get out of the house," Eldon said, and there was the flat clack-clack of unlocking a lunch box, echoed a moment later by Martin's.

"You and Marian again?"

"What's got into that woman, I don't know," Eldon said. "We get the computer, she's on it all day. She gets off it only when she knows I'm gonna be home. I have it from our eldest girl that she spends the Sabbath doin' all the cookin' for the week, an' during the week, the kids all do what useta be her chores. She's always on that darn' computer."

"What's she doin' on it?"

"How should I know? They only teach us enough about the workin's of them devil boxes to do the Lord's bidding among the evil, you know that."

"Yeah." There was the sound of munching for a bit, and Shad's stomach rumbled. The two boys muffled giggles, and got back to work.

Eldon's voice continued, "So I was doin' that myself t'other night, you know, scoutin' 'em out for the elders ta deal with, an' I started talkin' to this guy calls himself 'Barricade.' I thought that was a funny handle, you know? Asked him if he was a trucker or somethin', thinkin' he'd tell me was too young to work. But no, he said he's adopted three kids and he's raisin' 'em."

"And you kept talkin' to him?"

Eldon, sounding abashed: "Yea, I did."

Martin said thoughtfully, mouth full from the sound of it, "Well, they don't give us a quota or nothin'. I sure wouldn't tell anybody else about it, though."

"Oh, I ain't gonna, though 'zackly why might surprise you."

"So surprise me."

"Asked the guy where he lived, he said Nevada, close to Las Vegas. An' then I asked him if he was close to them Transformers that live out there, and he said, yeah, real close in fact. I said how close and he said all around him. Asked him how old his kids were an' he said they're triplets, they're all about two years old."

"Man, is that a lot of work. You remember when Japheth's triplets were born? I don't think that man slept for the first six months."

"Yeah, an' they're two years old now."

Silence. The boys eyed each other and stifled more giggles. The men were discussing two girls and a boy who had a minimum of eight temper tantrums a day collectively, and never seemed to sleep: if the Eastland compound had any resident demons it was those three.

Eldon cleared his throat and spat. "Anyway, I asked him how they was around the Transformers an' he said fine, the only time one of 'em got hurt was when she was playin' with the humans, an' that wasn't her fault or theirs, she was just unlucky."

"'Playin' with the humans'? You was talkin' to a Transformer!"

Lunchboxes clacked shut and were locked, and from the noises the two men stood. Then Eldon said uncertainly, "I know he was a demon, but he talked just like you an' me. Loves his kids just like you an' me, too."

The men began to move off. "Eldon, I swear," said Martin, "you tell the Reverend Dowling that an' he'll run you outta the compound for bein' a demon yourself."

David glanced at Shad, who was staring at nothing, wide-eyed. He reached across the sheep and laid a hand on the blond boy's cheek.

Shad came abruptly out of his trance, and one hand went to David's, cupping it softly for a moment. Then Shad dropped his hand, and said, "I guess we're done here. Let's cut old wool-for-brains loose, and set a spell before we head back."

David smiled. "I'd purely like that," he said.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mission City)

It was late in a fine, cold, sunny January afternoon when Diarwen put down her Kindle and raised her silver head from Optimus Prime's chestplate.

They were in his quarters, the day being so far advanced that energon manufacture was not possible: the sun's rays were incident on willing plating, but the angle at which it fell was too great. Much of the energy the star generated was dispersed into the atmosphere.

And it was too cold for a human or a Sidhe to enjoy the weather outside, though it was nearly optimal operating temperature for a Cybertronian. So they were in Optimus' quarters, and the Sidhe had been alternating her glances between her book, which was having trouble holding her attention, and the wall hanging recently given Optimus by the Elder Conservator Milestrina.

She had very nearly decided that so far as understanding Cybertronian aesthetics went, she was blind to too many of the spectra they used ever to have any taste. To her the hanging had areas of blue, purplish blue or greenish blue or pure blue, splotched at random throughout it. It made no aesthetic sense to her as Sidhe and even human art did.

She sighed and put down her Kindle. "_Acushla_, will you do something for me?"

"Of course." His servo, large enough to carry her safely, stroked her back with one finger, and she arched into his touch with pleasure. "What do you need?"

She sat up, ankles crossed, facing his helm. "I would like to see if having you draw energy from me will help me to recover my magic."

He raised his helm off the berth far enough to make optic contact with her, and cocked an arm behind his head to keep that position. "Explain the theory to me?"

Her eyes unfocused for a moment, as she thought about the best way to present this to her student. "First, every living creature draws mana naturally. You knew this, I think?"

He offered her his hand, and sat up himself. "Draws it or generates it?"

"Oh, both. One can, with a great deal of effort, become aware of drawing it, and increase the draw at will. Generation, though – that remains unconscious." She smiled at him, and he wondered, not for the first time, how three such discrete species such as hers, his, and the humans' had all developed that social gesture, and assigned the same meaning to it. "Could I get some tea? It is about time for you to draw your ration, is it not? Teaching," she said with a smile, "is nearly so hard a work as learning."

Diarwen had brought with her a Thermos of tea, a pita with hummus, tomato, and lettuce, all organic, and one of the cherry turnovers Mikaela had made a batch of for her. While he was gone she assembled these things and climbed up to his desk with them. When he returned she was seated there, fully dressed, drinking her tea.

He set the cube down after emptying it. "So, my love, every living creature both draws and generates mana. How am I to draw it from you?"

Gaia went up like a rocket. ::No! You can't do that! No! No! No!:: she sent to Optimus, and suddenly, all three of them were at the place where the two mortals had first met Gaia in her astral form, and spoken with her first teachers, the Original Primes.

Optimus was armored as he had been before the war, and Diarwen herself was again clad in the Sidhe knight's dress of long robe and tabard, hair loose, confined only by a simple silver ribbon threaded through silveroak leaves.

Those two held each other's glances for a moment, while Gaia manifested in her sand form, this time a tornado-like swirling funnel of windblown grit: this though there was no other wind around them. Gaia sounded just as she had before, like a very young child. Now, though, fear made her desperate.

Diarwen was both taken aback and considerably impressed to find herself in a place of Gaia's choosing at Gaia's will. Gaia had been able to override her personal wards and that was no easy thing to do; even humans knew that the most dangerous witch was an experienced witch. However, no human witch had, as Diarwen did, fifteen thousand years' work in her Craft behind her. Diarwen's personal wards would have made Fort Knox envious.

Yet here she was. And fear rolled off Gaia…the little one was very, very frightened.

She went to kneel before the tiny sandstorm, to be at Gaia's height. Although if the little femme already had that much power, the Sidhe reflected, wincing from the impact of blown sand, perhaps she should be on her feet.

The blowing sand seemed to implode, and Gaia abruptly manifested herself as the tiny femme Diarwen had first seen–a bit bigger, it seemed to Diarwen's eyes, than she had been, but still with optics of every color at once, and gleaming plating delicately dusted with gemstones shining blue amidst filigree. She "grasped" Diarwen's hands, and said intently, "No! You not do that! It hurt you!"

Optimus protested. "Gaia, I will never willingly hurt Diarwen!"

"Maybe not want to, but it happen anyway!" Gaia pulled her servos free of Diarwen, and ran to him. "Too strong!" she said, desperately, and Diarwen, moving to Optimus' side, could see the shine of coolant in the femmeling's optics. "Not want to, but it happen anyway!"

Optimus knelt, and offered his palms to them both. Then, Diarwen perched securely on his collar fairing, he raised the Matrix to his optics and said calmly, "Very well. We will find another way."

"The music one!" Gaia said. "The music one!"

Diarwen exchanged blank looks with Optimus. "The music one?" she said. "Do you mean Jazz?" She held a memory of Jazz' appearance, and his rich, strong laugh.

Gaia's smile came out, sun after storm. "Yes! That music one! He can do it! He knows how!" Like a child, she wiped her optics with the back of her hand, and then…she was gone, and they were back in Optimus' quarters. Wherever Gaia's place was, they had not been there long enough for Diarwen's tea to cool.

"Well…" Optimus said. "I guess that is how we shall do it, then." He felt a burst of warmth from Gaia, who remained silent.

"I have no reservations about asking Jazz for help," Diarwen said. "I see Gaia as far more knowledgeable in this area than I am myself. Jazz has been a ghost, and knows much more of energy management than I do."

"I find that hard to believe. Shall we simply ask him, then?"

Diarwen smiled. "There is a wonderful chance for some science here, Optimus. We should not let it escape us. Let us ask Wheeljack to monitor energy levels between Jazz and myself as this phenomenon occurs. Betony Lennox tells me that humans have attempted to measure changes in energy during psychic phenomena, but that they have had little success. Jack has access to much more sophisticated equipment. Let us see what he can make of it."

Two days later, Jazz and Diarwen met in the lab. Optimus could not, to his intense regret, be there as the experiment began; a Congressional fact-finding team had decided to visit, and did so on their schedule, not anyone else's. He had asked Wheeljack to report to him with the results of the test when completed, and Diarwen had approved that. Wheeljack didn't mind. He liked talking to Optimus.

Wheeljack had been briefed by Parker on Diarwen's particular needs (with Diarwen's permission: she thought it not a bad thing to have more of the healers on base intimately familiar with Sidhe physiology). Thus there was no steel, no iron, nothing ferric in the leads Diarwen had taped to various pulse and nerve points, all the wires of which led to a single small box any physiologist on the face of the Earth would have given his or her eyeteeth to possess…or even just to borrow for a day or two.

Jazz didn't really _need _a hookup. He would simply transfer a data file to Wheeljack. Diarwen, patiently enduring the thirty-fifth of what would prove to be eighty attachments, envied him that.

"So tell me again what we're doin' here, an' why?" the saboteur said to her.

"I think conscious control of my magic might return if you will draw some mana, personal magical power, from me. We generate our own, as you know, and I believe my system to be in a state of stagnation. I am blocked from using it consciously by the injuries I suffered at Chicago, but perhaps if it begins to move again with outside input…"

"Ah see. Yer unpluggin' the pipes."

The Sidhe laughed. "Aye, exactly! If flow is possible, I may again be able to tap into it."

Jazz spared a thought for being Sidhe, or human: unable to perceive the faint electrical currents in one's own systems without extensive training, where he and his fellows could tell precisely what charge was running through their neural system at any given moment. Lubricant pressure, coolant pressure, fluid pressure across half a dozen systems. Hundreds of details these biological creatures had no way to control directly, though a few of them had learned indirect control, and did not usually even perceive.

"Roll up your pants legs and shirtsleeves and lie down, please," Wheeljack said to Diarwen. She had already removed her boots.

Application of sensors resumed. Jazz wondered why Optimus wasn't doing this with Diarwen, and realized suddenly that he had asked that question aloud.

"He was worried that he is not experienced enough in energy management to do this for me safely," Diarwen said calmly, "that's all."

Jazz snorted. "Well, you came to the right bot. You ready, Que?"

"Yes, very nearly. Three more to go. I'm going to ask you both to start by simply relaxing for a few minutes, thinking about something pleasant, while l get baseline readings. There, that's done."

He moved to the little box and fired it up, watching intently. "All right, we're ready. If you'll begin thinking of something pleasant, please."

Jazz thought of Prowl, and Diarwen of Optimus.

"And something sad. Just briefly."

Jazz thought of Prowl lying dead. And Diarwen saw Orthelian fall once again.

"Good, thank you. Are we ready to begin?"

Diarwen said, "I need a moment to move from mundane mindset to…"

"Understood," Wheeljack said cheerfully. "Whenever you are ready…"

A brief time passed. Diarwen said, "Ready."

"Very well. Diarwen, you gave me this sheet of instructions to read, so I am going to begin. Are you both ready? Very well. Jazz, reach out and touch Diarwen's energy, and stay in contact with it.

"Now see if you are able to find a blockage anywhere, and take a gentle tug at it."

The indicators on the machine did a brief and energetic highland fling, and then Diarwen's fields settled back into their former rhythm, with one exception: seven of the eighty sensors had been still and silent, and now they recorded flow.

"And another tug, Jazz," Wheeljack read. He repeated this injunction five more times, and with each reiteration, the seven sensors showed a slight increase in activity.

With the third repetition, Diarwen shivered. "I am getting quite cold. Would you get the shawl I brought with me from my bag, please, Wheeljack?"

Instead he got the blanket Parker had sent him. "This may be warmer," he said, floating it down over her. "I think what you're experiencing is the energy flow, Diarwen."

"Ah'll second that," Jazz said cheerfully. "Mah fans are runnin' hard."

Four more repetitions, for a total of seven…"Do you wish to continue to nine, Diarwen?" Wheeljack said to her.

But Jazz said, "No, wait. Ah kin feel how much your energy's droppin', Diarwen. Didn't you tell me you have a shift to go to after we're done here?"

"I do," she said, turning her head to look at him. "But it is only to spell Monique while she meets with one of D'andre's care providers."

Jazz' eyes unfocussed. "Think Ah'll ask her if Ah can take that shift…that's if you wanna go for the full nine. You're gonna get wiped out if we keep goin' like this."

"I must concur," Wheeljack said, looking up from the display of the box. "It is your choice, but I think you should not be further stressed after we do this."

"Could you get Monique on speaker phone, then, please? I shall need to speak with her myself."

By the end of the ninth trial, it took the blanket, the shawl, and a very slight heating of the exam table Diarwen lay on to keep her from shivering violently. Jazz, having seen to that, whistled himself off down the hall to take her shift with D'andre, Monique having given her enthusiastic approval.

Wheeljack eyed his patient. "I do believe that I shall ask for help to return you to your quarters, as Mikaela is there to assist you. You shouldn't be walking that far, and you should not be left alone. I am also going to prescribe a snack, and get it delivered."

"Very well," said Diarwen. She didn't sound as if she had enough energy to disagree.

Wheeljack warmed the table on which she lay further. "I wanted to thank you," he said, "for asking me to do this. I do not know if you knew I was interested in psychic phenomena, but it seems most interesting."

"N-n-n-no," teeth-chattered Diarwen. "That I did not. It has w-w-w-worked out well for both of us, then."

"Indeed. I am somewhat puzzled, though, as to why you did not ask Ratchet to do this with you."

There was a single pulse of alarm from Diarwen, before she deliberately calmed her fields and said, "He is so very b-b-bbusy, even w-w-wwith Moonracer and Perceptor h-h-here, that I hate to interrupt him for anything b-b-b-but a medical emergency."

Interesting. Wheeljack did not comment, simply delivered Diarwen to the wheelchair and orderly sent for her, and saw her off to her quarters.

He pinged Optimus to be sure the Prime had finished with polishing the visiting brass for the day. He had, but was blowing off steam on the firing range; could Wheeljack meet him there?

Wheeljack transformed and rolled out. His extra energon ration had been consumed earlier that day (a factor in scheduling Diarwen's experiment), so he made three blistering circuits of the Proving Ground, and slid sideways to a halt to transform beside the Prime, cooling system in overdrive.

Optimus smiled down at him. "You must have been in the lab too long," he said.

"I do not believe such a possibility exists," Wheeljack said happily, "but I certainly enjoyed that."

"Good." Optimus, smiling, shipped his guns. "How did it go?"

"Diarwen was very drained when we finished. Probably, she will need a night's sleep and a hearty breakfast to recover. Mikaela was going to feed her homemade chicken soup and that will certainly help. Once she has recovered physically, she tells me she will come back to the lab and run a simple test, trying something she could do with ease before the injury. She wanted to do that today, but I had to discourage her."

"Thank you, Jack. That was very wise of you."

"Oh, it's understandable why she wanted to try it…I don't know how I would react to such a wounding, Prime. It is an assault on the very core of one's self, very similar to what Skysong suffered."

Optimus sighed. "I had feared so. And there was nothing we could do for either…not for Skysong until Chip showed us how to think about her issues in a new way, and not for Diarwen in any fashion."

They fell silent, thinking on that; Optimus feared that his beloved had never told him how close he had come to losing her far more finally than he had when she ran to earth at Betony's farm.

Wheeljack watched the darting flight of swallows plucking insects from the air in the gathering sunset until the time was right to speak again. "There was one other thing that was very odd. I asked Diarwen why she had not requested that Ratchet to do this work with her, and she said that she was reluctant to disturb him when he was so very busy. Optimus, his medical staff doubled with Excellion's arrival. He is less busy than he has been in vorn, and I believe she knew that."

"Perhaps. The two are not close, I know that."

Wheeljack said, very carefully, "There may be more to it than that. When she said it, she presented almost all the physiological tells a human does when lying."

Optimus sighed. "I see. Thank you for telling me that, Jack."

"I wish it were better news."

"Oh, it is not unexpected, even if it is not precisely welcome." The Prime smiled down at him with sorrow in his optics; a most unnerving experience, Wheeljack noted, and they began the trip back to Wheeljack's home of the heart: his lab.

Optimus' own home of the heart was not admin, nor even, any longer, a Cybertron that likely no longer existed. Instead, it was wherever Diarwen happened to be.

A ping informed the Prime that Excellion had just finished working with Roller, and Optimus, to Roller's delight, took the little remote on a second trip to see Diarwen. She was asleep when he got there, so Roller and Optimus between them taught Mikaela to play sparklings' strateka.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Jack?" said a voice from the door of the lab.

Wheeljack looked up and smiled at Diarwen, watching the various bubblings and changes of color in the several hundred feet of tubing that presently snaked around the lab. "Good morning! Have you come back to run the second part of your test?"

The Sidhe moved a little further into the lab. "I did, yes, but this looks like not so fair a time for it," she said, smiling as the contents of a particularly long tube flashed over from pink to purple, all at once. "How beautiful."

Wheeljack tilted his helm and studied his work. Beautiful? Perhaps; he had been so involved in following the process it would never have occurred to him to note the presence of something so unmeasurable as beauty. "Is it?" he said. "Our optics work so differently …"

Diarwen laughed. "Aye, that is truth! But if this is a bad time, Jack, I can come back at the end of my shift tomorrow."

"How long will it take?"

"About twenty seconds, if all you wish to do is see if I can do what I hope to. If you want to hook up all eighty of those electrodes again, much, much longer."

The purple was spreading through the rest of the tubes. Where it met the secondary input of a green fluid, at a y-connector, the result was gray for a stretch, and then became lavender. Wheeljack smiled happily and eased the cock open to add the final chemical, a turquoise gel that dripped, blob by blob, into the lavender. The paisley result went through a condenser inside an ice jacket, and came out in drops of mysteriously clear liquid that fell into a sealed container.

The inventor found a small spill. Further investigation showed that a faulty connection was responsible for the leak; Wheeljack emptied that stretch of piping, seated the connectors more firmly, mopped up, rinsed the area, and tossed the soiled rags into the lab's laundry container. All the while he talked: "I can do it now if you'll give me a few minutes to be sure this is stable. And the really good news is, it will not require all eighty of the sensors: just the seven which showed activity when Jazz drew energy from you."

"That will be fine. -May I sit down?"

"Please," he said, waving in the general direction of make-yourself-at-home. "I'll get the sensors and the recorder."

Doing two jobs at once is rarely a good idea. Wheeljack had left the lid off the laundry container.

Diarwen, for her part, was more tired than she wished to admit. Parker had made a house call the day after the Grand Experiment, and stood her down from two days' duty. She'd slept most of the day after. This morning, she was up, showered, dressed, and had made it as far as the lab before she wanted another nap.

Bless the medical instincts of the base's human-and-Sidhe CMO, she thought.

He found on returning that she had climbed laboriously up to the table he'd used last time. She said, "Do I need to roll up my shirtsleeves and pant legs?"

"No, no. These all attach to the scalp." He was busy for a few moments, and then said, "All right. It's ready. What are you going to do?"

Diarwen reached into her BDU shirt and drew out a tiny white cylinder with a tuft of—something—sticking out of the top. The material below seemed to swirl up from the flat base to the sticking-out fluff.

Wheeljack had never before seen a birthday candle, after all.

Diarwen looked at it, and drew a deep breath. "I am going to try to call Fire to this, which will cause it to flame. -A very tiny flame," she said hastily, as alarm crossed Wheeljack's faceplates. "It will be so small I can pinch it out with my fingers. If I can do this, I was correct in my assumptions."

"I see." He spent a moment in communion with the magic box. "Well, whenever you are ready, then."

He was watching the box, not the Sidhe. The indicators moved as they had when she first got into the mindspace to do this, and then she concentrated briefly and stared at the candle. The candle burst into flame, and so, much more spectacularly, did the soiled rags in the laundry container.

Every alarm in Wheeljack's lab went off. The inventor himself, who had jumped behind shelter almost before the noise began, had researched fire extinguishers, learned how they worked, and modified himself to contain one … and also charged himself with more retardant on a strict schedule, and of course, after each use.

So he uncoiled himself from shelter and went, without particular haste, to the laundry container. Out of the corner of his optic, he saw Diarwen lick thumb and forefinger, and pinch the flame from her candle, which she put back into her BDU pocket.

Her face was alight with delight, and awe. He saved a video and sent it to Optimus.

The fire was burning …. oddly. And this wasn't, to be truthful, the first time used rags had been the source of conflagration in Wheeljack's lab.

So he said, "How very odd. Diarwen, are you able to control fire?"

Her fields registered astonishment. "I was before I was injured, that much is true."

"You may have done so again. This flame is not in the usual shape of an uncontrolled burn, and in fact you seem to be extinguishing it from the edge in toward the center."

That, of course, was enough to break Diarwen's concentration, and the firelet abruptly resumed involvement all across the heap of rags. Thoughtfully, Wheeljack extruded his nozzle, and put it out. The lab's fans whined into overdrive, sucking out the smoke and ash.

When he turned back to the Sidhe, he thought that he had never seen puzzlement more clearly stamped across anyone's faceplates. "What's wrong?" he said. "And shall I remove the leads?"

"Yes, please. Nothing is wrong, Que, my magic is returning, and that is all I can want. But …" she folded her hands in her lap as his servos went about the task of freeing her. "I could feel the flow of mana as I lit the candle. I could not feel it when I controlled the fire."

"Is that so," he said thoughtfully, coiling the leads and putting them away after cleaning the contact pads. "You had control over starting the fire, but none over minimizing it."

"Over my action, but not over my reaction."

The scientist cocked his helm. "Is that not to be expected, though? Would you categorize your wounding as a processor injury, or a neural-systems injury?"

Diarwen grew thoughtful. "More the latter than the former, I believe. My entire system, frame, processor, and spark,"—she grinned at Wheeljack, who smiled back—"was involved in channeling that much energy. But I soon discovered that, though I could form the necessary intent to cast a spell, my body simply would not channel enough mana to power anything more than this." She indicated the candle. "Yet if you will recall, I did not completely lose my magic until after I re-injured myself in healing Skysong. While undoubtedly there was some brain damage—I do not see how there could not have been—most of it seems to have been other than that."

He was silent for a moment, as his processor flashed and spun. Then he said, "When one of us has carried an overlarge charge through the sensory pathways, normally we expect some processor damage, small or great as the charge exceeded the bot's capacity. Yet it's quite common for neural-net pathways to fail before they carry an overload charge to the processor, thus sparing the bot some degree of processor damage. We do know that if the damage is small and cannot otherwise be repaired, new pathways will be created by self-repair nanites over time: that's true in both net and processor. There is some evidence that the same process, though of course using a different mechanism, is true of humans, that new pathways grow or old ones are restored, over time. I don't see why your own people should be the exception, Diarwen. Intelligence, it seems, will find a way, and magic is of course only a specialized form of intelligence."

Diarwen yawned. Not politely, behind a hand, but a wide-open jaw-cracking yawn. "Oh, Que, I beg your pardon. I was still very tired when I came here, and now this little bout of excitement…yes, I believe you to be correct. I am going to have to take that information away and think very hard on what it will mean, and how I may support that process."

He nodded slowly. "Yes. That's wise. Be sure your cholesterol levels are high enough to support re-myelinization."

She nodded, and later looked up the information. But for right now, she said, "May I get down? I have a lot to think about, and a nap to get out of the way before that."

He offered her his palm, and she accepted the lift. He also pinged Optimus, who, unable to come himself, sent Chromia to Diarwen. The cycleformer "happened by" and offered Diarwen a ride to her quarters.

When she left, the excitement was over. Wheeljack checked his multicolored experiment, which was proceeding exactly as it should, and was gratified to realize that for once, he hadn't been the one who blew up the lab.

(End Part Fourteen)


	15. Chapter 15

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Fifteen

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mexico)

Simmons pulled his boonie hat down over his eyes. It was the only item of desert camo he was wearing; no sense running the recently-discharged veteran cover into the ground. But he was glad he had it. The glare of a tropical sun was fierce, even with a good pair of sunglasses.

"Hey, Fig, shouldn't we be take pointers from the locals and take a siesta about now? In the _shade?"_

Fig laughed. "It will be cool inside the ruins. It can't be too far."

Bumblebee jounced over a series of potholes and growled a series of rude glyphs that sounded to his passengers like a load of gravel going down a garbage disposal.

Simmons rubbed the top of his head, which had just impacted Bee's roof. "You said it, buddy."

Fig pointed out the window. "This may be it."

Simmons' eyes were watering, but as he squinted, he caught a glimpse of a stone wall through a break in the jungle foliage.

This turned out to be the still-formidable ruins of an abandoned Spanish fort, the stern square-cut stones frowning out over a small clearing. Around the fort sun made it through to the ground, where elsewhere, the jungle provided heavy shade.

Dear, glorious, _cool_ shade. Simmons took off the hat to wipe his forehead.

Bumblebee turned off the road and stopped in front of a heavy wooden gate. A quick scan revealed no human life signs nearby, so he discharged his passengers and transformed, standing on tip-ped to peer over the wall.

From the outside, it looked like no one had been here in years, but the inside told a different story. Newspapers whose recent date Bee could still read were scattered among other trash: cigarette packages, matchbooks, food wrappers. As well, the courtyard was deeply rutted with recent tire tracks. Vines climbing the walls had been torn down in places: passionfruit vines, seen in the photo of the missing symbionts. "Nobody…home," Bee said.

Fig swore in an assortment of languages. "_Now_ what?"

Simmons asked, "Can you give us a lift over the wall, Bumblebee?"

"Yes," Bee replied. He lifted them over the wall to a safe perch on a tile roof, then jumped the gate and got his two companions down.

The three of them split up to look around. There was really nothing to see from the courtyard, except more evidence that whoever had been here was gone now.

Simmons said, "We're going to have to go inside and search the buildings."

Fig nodded. "Bee, keep watch, will you? Warn us if anyone comes." The Transformer nodded, and Fig said to Simmons, "Let me take point."

Simmons didn't like having to agree to that, but he'd just be in Fig's way if the place were less deserted than it seemed. The two men readied their weapons and went exploring.

Fig said, "There was a window in that picture."

Simmons nodded. "Yeah, it overlooked the ocean, not this courtyard. Has to be that two story building, the one on the other side."

Fig said, "I wonder what this place was? Couldn't have been a fort or anything, it's too small. And it wasn't a mission. It doesn't look religious at all."

"Hospital, asylum, something like that. Maybe a leper colony or a sanitarium. Y'know, somewhere they put people they wanted to get out of the way."

"_Si._...Just the place for the cartel to make themselves at home."

Simmons said, "This is true. So they moved on, why?"

Fig grunted. "Good question. Why are they keeping the symbionts locked up? Why not just kill them?"

Simmons said, "You're right. They're worth more alive. I'm going to take this as confirmation that they're going to sell them to the highest bidder."

"Gotta be. They're too dangerous to keep around otherwise. Let's see what they were doing in here."

Simmons took a step back, out of the way, while Fig kicked the door, and immediately dropped to a crouch with his own sidearm at the ready. But the area revealed was bare of foes.

They cleared the building, completely focused on what they were doing—searching an unfamiliar building was one of _the_ most dangerous tasks either of them performed in the course of their jobs. But they were lucky in one way: there was nothing two-legged in the building—a lot of spiders and lizards and hot air and dust, but no people or symbionts.

That meant they were unlucky in the way that counted.

They did find the cell exactly where they had thought it would be. A larger room had probably once been a guard post of some sort, as it contained a decrepit old desk as well as a couch and chair that had seen better days, and a coffee table that had one leg splinted with a piece of plastic pipe. Cigarette butts ground underfoot on the floor indicated that several people had stood outside the barred cell for lengthy periods.

It was actually cooler on the second floor than downstairs. One set of windows opened into the courtyard, and another set, in the cell itself, looked out over the beach. The Spaniards had learned from the Moors, who learned from the Sahara, how to cool living spaces without air conditioning.

Fig rattled the cell door. "They locked it, but I don't see the key."

"Got any thermite?"

Fig shook his head. "Too hard to get across the border."

Simmons opened his wallet and took out a set of lock picks. "Old lock like that shouldn't be too hard to open." He tried to squat to get at the lock, and cursed as his brace pinched. Fig kicked the chair over where Simmons could reach it, and the agent sat down.

Picking it wasn't that easy; it was an old lock that hadn't been used very frequently. Eventually, Fig had the bright idea to ask if Bee had a can of WD-40 in his subspace. He did, and Simmons got the lock open. The cell door swung wide with a loud grating screech.

Fig tossed the can of lubricant back out the window to Bumblebee, who caught it neatly and subspaced it as he came over to look inside. "Found...anything?"

"No symbionts."

"Hey, Fig, look at this!"

Figueroa joined Simmons, and Bumblebee adjusted his optics to get a good look at whatever Simmons had found. "_Esta_ Cybertronian!" the NEST soldier said.

Prisoners write on the walls of their confinement, whether human or Cybertronian. Scratched in the rear wall of the cell was a line of glyphs.

"Do you know what it says?"

Simmons shook his head. "No, this is phonetic spelling. It's how they write foreign words. I can read a lot of word glyphs, but not this. Bee, can you make any sense of this?"

Bee was frustrated that he didn't have a suitable sound clip to pronounce the word, but he could always spell out each syllable by trimming larger clips. "El Cu-yo."

Fig said, "That's a little fishing village about three hours from here, northwest of Tizimin."

"Little out of the way place?" Simmons asked.

Fig nodded.

"Sounds like a good place to hold an auction if you don't want the _federales_ there."

"Yeah," Fig said. "Let's check out the rest of this place, then we'll be on our way."

Rather than going back the way they had come, the maps that Bee had downloaded showed a quicker way back to the main road if they kept going another five miles to the next little village. This was a Mayan settlement of a few houses surrounding a small church, a cantina, and a store.

They stopped at the cantina for a couple of beers and something to eat. The other customers were all local people, and tourists a breed rare enough that the two men were the targets of all eyes. Tourist dollars were welcome, but new faces moreso.

Simmons' brace got more attention than anything else, though no one was rude. Once they found that both men could speak Spanish, Figueroa like a native and Simmons fluently, if with an accent, the novelty wore off fast. They were soon back on the road.

Three hours later they reached El Cuyo, a beautiful little seaside town. The last part of the journey crossed a causeway over the narrow waterway between the mainland and a long barrier island.

"If we weren't on the job, this would be the perfect place to find a hotel and spend a few days fishing."

Fig said, "That would leave Bee out!"

"He's not that big. We could find a fishing boat that could carry him," Simmons grinned.

Bee considered falling overboard in salt water, and made a rude noise. He had spent enough time on Diego Garcia to know what a mess seawater was to clean up before the salt caused corrosion.

While he knew the humans thought it was a fine idea to catch some fish and bring their trophies back to a local restaurant to have them cooked, Bumblebee had no intention of catching, much less consuming, a fish.

Bee began to drive around the town's few streets, hoping to detect traces of the symbionts' presence. He paid special attention to larger garages and boathouses, anything big enough to contain an illicit gathering.

It had gotten dark before they all decided that this had been a wild goose chase. Buzzsaw and Rumble were not here—not alive, anyway.

Bumblebee said, "Fought them...many times...would have...offlined...the little glitches. But...not like this."

Simmons said, "I know what you mean, buddy. If a soldier has to go, he deserves to go out on the battlefield, not sold off like a piece of junk or shot like a fish in a barrel."

Figueroa said, "There's nothing more that we can do right now. Let's find somewhere to stay tonight and retrace our steps back to the compound tomorrow."

"Yeah, we know they were there, someone has to know where they went," Simmons agreed.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The Cybertronian side of med bay had to be large enough to accommodate several injured bots at the same time. Through the interference of some dim-witted bureaucrat, though, human and Cybertronian med bays were the same square footage.

Even factoring in the need for space to hold human reference volumes, this meant that Ratchet's office, compared to Parker's, was miniscule: Parker's not being that large to begin with. Room for patients had to come from somewhere, though, and so long as Ratchet had room on the walls for a drawing or thirty-seven by the sparklings, he didn't care.

That would change once the new residence opened. The medbay facilities had been designed to each CMO's specifications. The Air Force had not paid very much attention to what the bots were doing up there, assuming that they knew their own needs, and the construction wasn't costing much. Everything they did was pretty much inspected now and then and rubber stamped up the chain of command.

As for the human side of things, the official plan was for Parker to expand into the bot side of the existing space once the current occupants moved out. However, the real plan was, once the new construction was completed, to miraculously find space there to move the human facilities as well. Likewise, Admin and everything else would eventually migrate up there, and the miserably hot Quonset huts would be converted to some other use.

Ironhide suggested target practice, but as usual was not taken seriously.

It was a few more days before Optimus sat down in Ratchet's office, well after the other bot should have been off duty and in his quarters.

They had no high-grade, no spare energon to use as social lubricant, and they were crowded almost knee-to-knee with one another.

The Prime had never been one to delay the inevitable, and so he steadied himself, and said what he had to say, without preamble. "What's going on between you and Diarwen?"

The medic's visage darkened. "I don't trust her."

"Why not?"

Ratchet sighed, and sent the Prime the data packet of what he had found. The murders of sleeping priests and soldiers in Magdeburg, the reward offered for the Sidhe at the time.

Her own weight in gold! Had the Middle Ages had a Top Ten Most Wanted list, one Diarwen ni Gilthanel would have stayed at Number One for several decades, until it was logical to assume that she had died, had she been human. The Catholic Church in the sixteenth century had been involved in what it perceived as a struggle for its own survival with the forces of Protestantism, and was therefore unforgiving of its enemies. She was feared and hated and prayed against by its priests, and also by those of the laity who saw the need to keep themselves safe from both the Church and the White Devil of Magdeburg.

"And what did Diarwen say when you discussed this with her?"

"Almost nothing. She confirmed that the 'white devil' was in fact herself, and then she jumped down from a table. I can show you her footprints in the concrete from that impact, if you wish."

Optimus sighed. "She was fighting not merely for her own survival, Ratchet, but for others' lives as well. She and I have discussed the siege of Magdeburg: the innocent of the city were massacred, and her murders were both an attempt to stop that, and to exact revenge for it."

"Optimus. She is willing, and able, to kill while her victim sleeps. And I know what you think of revenge as a motive."

"That combination of willingness and ability is true of half the NEST personnel currently on this base, as well as Jazz, Mirage, and myself. I think you would too, in some circumstances. Looking at the historical record, I am willing to call it a justifiable revenge, and more importantly, it was probably the only way to stop the murders. So your point is?"

"None of the others are as close to you as is Diarwen. If she decided to offline you, in your sleep or otherwise …"

Optimus did not filter the reply that rose to the top of his processor. He snorted.

Ratchet's fields suffused with anger; the tiny office crowded them so close to one another that neither had any trouble perceiving the others' emotions. But under that anger was fear: fear for Optimus. Fear of losing the Cybertronians' last Prime. If they lost him, what would become of them all?

Optimus disregarded his own anger: that of it for Diarwen's own sake he did not dismiss. But the other bot's fear put a gentleness into his tone that had not been there to start with. "You are mistaken in your interpretation, Ratchet. She came very close to ending her own life to save us all in Chicago. When Blitzwing and Lugnut attacked us, she fought with me, for me, and again she almost died. What more do you want of her?"

"I … don't know. I suppose I'll have to talk to her about it."

"That is precisely what you are going to do." As if on cue the door pinged the glyph for admittance. Optimus opened it and Diarwen came in.

Ratchet objected, "Now, wait a klick! Prime!"

Optimus said, and the command glyphs he refrained from sending rang through the air as well, "I have had enough of my cohort being torn to pieces by a misunderstanding. I cannot force you two to like one another, but before you leave this room, you are going to talk this out like adults and clear the air."

He bent down and plucked up Diarwen, who emitted an outraged squawk: "I beg your pardon!"

"My apologies, milady, but I will allow no chance of an accident," he said to her, with a slight dip of his helm that infuriated Ratchet into producing a matching outraged squawk.

Optimus swung to face him. "Need I remind you that your prank the other night could have done Diarwen a serious injury?"

Ratchet dropped his optics and muttered, "Wouldn't have hurt her unless she meant you harm."

Diarwen, her furious green eyes on Ratchet's optics, said coldly, "Then you worded your spell very carelessly, for it would have discharged on any contact."

Ratchet glanced up, and Optimus could read, as indeed Diarwen could, how far aback he was taken. "That was not my intention."

Diarwen said, less truculently, "So it may not have been. But intent powers a spell, and shapes it greatly. However, it is the caster's emotions at the moment of casting which have the most influence on precisely what intent goes into the spell. So also does the wording of the spell, but you will have to tell me what that was before I know precisely what went wrong. You must be very careful what you ask for. And do not trust spells that you find on the internet to be fully described, or for that matter, to be safe to use."

"Not going to do that again," Ratchet said, sullenly.

Diarwen nodded as if she were the queen and the medic a varlet who had promised not to hunt her deer (because if he did she'd have his head). "As well, Ratchet, since you have shown an affinity for magic, you must know that it may not be necessary for you to formally 'cast a spell' in order to manifest your will into the world. Intent and focus could be enough to set events in motion. This is why magic is _taught,_ and those who practice it not allowed to simply accumulate the necessary skills on their own. Those with the gift must learn how to use it—and how to refrain from its use."

Confusion spread itself across the medic's faceplates. "I…didn't know it was something that _I_ did. I thought magic was a force of nature, and that if you assemble the right materials, follow the correct procedure and recite the spell properly, magic happens."

"That is true as far as it goes, but it does not take into account that you are a part of the world in which your magic manifests. You are a living thing, producing and using mana, magical power," she added, as confusion suffused his aura at the word, "and exerting your will on your surroundings. Intent is critical in magical work. No two witches casting the same 'canned' spell will get exactly the same result, because each will affect the outcome in a different way."

Optimus said, "Beloved, you may lecture him later."

Diarwen bowed her head. "As you wish." She raised her head and looked again at the medic, who found the compassion in her eyes infuriating. "Ratchet, I know that you acted purely out of love for Optimus and from a desire to defend him. That much was evident in your spell. For that reason, I cannot find it in me to blame you for what you did. For protecting someone whom I also love, I cannot blame you in the least. For doing it in a careless, reckless manner? Yes, that I blame you for, absolutely."

Ratchet surprised Optimus by dipping his helm in acceptance.

Diarwen, voice and eyes still case-hardened steel, continued in a very level tone, "No harm was done, so as far as I am concerned, the incident is ended. I would like to know what I have done in all the months since we met that leaves you with the idea that I mean Optimus harm in any way whatsoever."

Ratchet said, "You're capable of murdering people in their sleep, and Optimus trusts you with his life. What reason do I have to believe that trust isn't misplaced?"

Diarwen watched the medic for a moment, perhaps weighing her next words. Then she tilted her head to one side and said, "Optimus, I would like to ask Jazz to attend us. I believe that when he has heard my tale, he will vouch for me, and will be best able to explain my actions to Ratchet."

Optimus sent to Jazz, ::Are you free to join Ratchet, Diarwen and myself in Ratchet's office? We are in need of your expertise.::

::Ah'll be right over.::

Not much sooner said than done: Jazz pinged the door for admittance, and Optimus let him in.

Jazz asked, "Why're y'all locked in here?"

Optimus said, "Locking the door was the only way to assure that this conversation took place. Ratchet has some deep reservations about Diarwen's actions during and following the siege of Magdeburg. Diarwen feels that you may have valuable insights for him."

"OK," the spymaster said, as he parked his skidplate against a corner of Ratchet's desk, next to the medic and opposite the one where Diarwen stood. "Diarwen, why don't you start by telling us exactly what happened there. Pretend Ah'm your control, and this is a debriefing." He broadened the range of his sensors, deepened their sensitivity, and narrowed their focus to the Sidhe: something he had always done as control.

Diarwen, though unaware of Jazz' sensory modifications, immediately saw the wisdom of framing it in that way. As a senior officer, Ratchet had attended such sessions many times with Optimus and Jazz.

It also underscored that she had been acting as an agent behind enemy lines. Jazz was on her side … at least until her own and Ratchet's testimony proved otherwise.

She was not aware that in the time it took her to have these thoughts, Jazz had accessed much of the information on the clues humans gave when they falsified information. Word choice, physiological changes, body posture. If she was lying, the trap was set: always allowing for the fact that Diarwen was not human. If the spymaster didn't like the answers or the feelings around them, he'd be chatting with Parker and Boggs, singly and together.

She replied, "Magdeburg was a largely Protestant city which rose up against the Catholic Holy Roman Empire in 1630. In November of that year, a papally-funded mercenary army was assembled under a joint command—"

"Whose?" Jazz interrupted.

"Imperial Field Marshal Gottfried Heinrich Graf zu Pappenheim, and Johann Tserclaes, Count of Tilly."

The spymaster nodded. "Go on."

"I arrived in Magdeburg on the sixteenth of December. On the twentieth of May of the next year, the council of Magdeburg was persuaded to sue for peace, but word of their decision did not reach Tilly in time to prevent an assault on the city. A fierce bombardment commenced, and the gate fell. One of the defending generals was shot as the city was overrun, which threw the defenders into disarray. Fires were started in an attempt to slow the city being overrun, and defenders mined other areas. It was understood by all of us that surrender carried with it no guarantee of safety—indeed, I myself saw captured defenders put to the sword, and others wrote of seeing that same barbarity, as well."

She paused, and all those present knew the horror the Sidhe felt almost five vorn ago: it was clear in her fields. "When I saw that the city was lost, I rallied those of the guard that I could and we set about to ensure the escape of as many of the civilians as possible. I sent them one by one with bands of refugees, until to the best of my knowledge I was the last of the defenders left alive within the walls. At that point, I gathered up what civilians I could find by myself and escaped."

Jazz felt from the Sidhe some overpowering guilt. In this tiny office, as they were practically knee-to-knee with one another, he also felt her sorrow: his memory supplied him with a list of battles in which he, too, and Optimus as well—he didn't need to glance at Optimus to understand that the Prime was reliving bad memories right along with both of them—had done every single thing they could, and it wasn't enough.

He'd known bots who had traded their lives to get civilians to safety. He'd known bots who had traded their lives vorn later for relief of the pain of failing to get civilians to safety.

Diarwen's eyes were back from her private corner of the Pit when he glanced at her again. She said, "A small group who had escaped after I did found me after I had been overwhelmed by the injuries I suffered that night, and I am quite sure that I owe them my life. However, they brought a tale of absolute horror out of that gods-benighted place. The Imperial army had not been paid. That rabble spread throughout the city, robbing everyone, and when there was nothing left to loot, they began to rape and murder, and burn the city. Roughly five thousand of the thirty thousand people then living in Magdeburg escaped."

Jazz asked, "How were you injured?"

"I was hit on the head with the flat of a rebounding battle-axe. At the time, I did not lose consciousness, but I began seeing double, and I had a headache on both sides of my head – a large bruise where the axe impacted, and more pain opposite that, though it had not jammed me into anything. The pain worsened as the night advanced. I believe it to have been a relatively severe concussion, but of course there is no way to know that now. It slowed me down; because of that, in the ensuing fighting I received several injuries. There was no opportunity to bind them, so they continued to bleed for several hours. By the time I stopped to rest, I collapsed and could not get back up."

By now, Ratchet was staring at his peds, processing hard. Head wounds in humans tended to bleed profusely in and of themselves, and he had no reason to believe that the Sidhe were any different in that respect: the similarity of anatomy argued for it. Their chemical variances might differentiate the process, but not the outcome.

And Diarwen had just described a counter-coup concussion. When a head, human or Sidhe, is struck sufficiently hard, the brain bounces off the inside of the skull: the site of the impact has a bruise, but the bruise on the surface of the brain opposite impact is often what dooms the victim to a slow descent into unconsciousness, from which she or he is unlikely to recover without medical help.

And that, of course, was unavailable in the seventeenth century. The Sidhe was very lucky to have suffered only shock from loss of blood, complicated by confusion resulting from the concussion. That confusion had interfered with avoiding and properly caring for subsequent injuries: Diarwen was herself too good with a sword to have fallen to any human not extremely skilled, and those would not have been the common rabble in the first rank of invaders.

Very likely she was correct that the refugees who found her had saved her life.

Diarwen, while he had these thoughts, continued. "Magdeburg is located on the Elbe River. The occupying forces threw the burned bodies of the dead into the river to prevent the spread of disease, so twenty-five thousand corpses floated down the Elbe. It took two weeks for them to pass a single point."

Jazz saw the guilt again. Now it made sense, and it jibed with what he knew of the Sidhe. He relaxed, and she went on, "The land had been stripped bare by the besieging army. The mercenaries began to harry the survivors, who had nothing to give them: it was pure malice, cruelty for its own sake. I marshaled a force of some twenty men to oppose them, and we began to hunt the victimizers. I let a few of them live to carry back tales of an avenging devil woman, that they might fear to leave the city and give the civilians a chance to absent themselves from the territory. But this backfired, for word of _die Teufilin Weiss_ was carried back to Rome. The Inquisition was mobilized." She paused for a moment as she saw telltale signs that both Ratchet and Jazz were accessing the Internet.

Jazz—no, Meister—said grimly, "Continue."

Diarwen took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh, girding herself against what she had next to say before she raised her silver eyes to Jazz' optics. "I sent my men on ahead to follow their families to safety and returned to Magdeburg. Rome had sent a group of twenty witch-hunters to the city. A few were priests, and the rest heavily-armed and armored knights who had pledged themselves to the Church. They were prepared to round up any 'heretics' who might have had dealings with me, and torture them to death one by one until they found out where I was hiding. I followed a witch-hunter back to their camp, and that night, I killed them all. I left a note on chief inquisitor's body that I was coming to Rome to deal with the Pope. I did this so that they would have no further cause to search for me in the area of Magdeburg. It does not surprise me to learn that Urban the Eighth put a reward out for my capture, and I do not like to think how my life would have ended had he succeeded."

"Urban the Eighth?" Jazz said in surprise, coping still with the emotions running around the room, now Optimus', mostly. "The guy who forced Galileo to recant heliocentrism."

"The very same," Diarwen said, "and the last of the popes to expand his empire by force of arms. He incurred such debt in the doing that, after his time, the Church could no longer bear the cost of being a secular world power and became more or less exclusively a religious organization. I hope he lived the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, but I had more sense than to attempt to carry out that threat. Instead, I fled back to Ireland and remained there until I came to America some fifty years later."

Jazz thought that perhaps that wasn't a flight but a strategic retreat, though Diarwen's fields were still radiating sorrow and guilt. He leaned forward. "Was this the same group who poisoned you?"

"No! No, Jazz, no such thing. The Sack of Magdeburg happened almost four hundred years ago. The Catholic Church is no longer what it was, and a full score of human generations have come and gone since then. No one still lives who was there, aside from myself, and no one now living bears any responsibility for what happened there. What befell me in Las Vegas was the act of two misguided old men, acting upon their own initiative, and only that. They had no official connection with the Church in what they did."

Jazz looked up at Ratchet then. "So what's the deal here, Ratch? You got a problem with Diarwen, OK. You got two senior officers here. Let's hear it."

Optimus said, "Wait. If this is going to come to the point of official charges, I must recuse myself. We require the attendance of another senior officer."

Diarwen said, "Ratchet, if you have a grievance against me, or if you would claim insult, then Jazz is right. Now is the time—summon another officer, and state your cause, that I might answer it."

"Is Prowl in your office?" Ratchet asked Jazz.

"Yes, he's there."

"Then call him. Let's get this over with," Ratchet said.

Prowl knocked and was let in, and Jazz sent him the recording of everything that had happened. Prowl took a moment to go through it, checking all the facts against the historical record. Once he had done so, he turned to Diarwen. "Are you prepared to accept our judgment on this matter?"

But she shook her silver head. "I cannot agree to that in ignorance. I need to know what your options are should you find Ratchet's reservations concerning me reasonable."

"If we find you to be a credible threat against our Prime, you will be removed from the base."

"So be it. If that is your judgment, I will go." She cocked her head, and briefly smiled at Optimus. "But remember, I removed myself once, and Optimus retrieved me. I wish the three of you good fortune in preventing him from doing so again."

Jazz laughed.

The Sidhe's expression might have lightened for a moment before she said, "However, I warn you that I will not again overlook a direct threat to my person."

"Fair enough," Jazz said. "Ratchet? Let's hear it."

The medic drew a long breath, and did not look at the Sidhe, nor at his Prime. His optics darted between the two senior officers. "She's capable of killing in cold blood. She comes from a different culture, one we don't understand, but we do know that she lives by a code that constrains her actions when she feels insulted."

Jazz asked, "Diarwen, what about that? What if Optimus does something that your code won't let you ignore?"

"Then I would state my grievance and allow him the opportunity to answer to it," she said levelly, her eyes locked to his optics. "There would surely be some settlement short of a duel. Violence is the last resort, not the first."

While there are human liars who make a point of looking into their victim's eyes while lying, none of the other physiological tells of falsification came from the Sidhe. Her pulse rate, for one, did not quicken. And Jazz was glad of that.

Prowl said to Ratchet, "Logically, unless you believe that both Jazz and I should also be considered a threat to Optimus, there is no cause for your suspicion of her. I can categorically state that, in her place, I would have done precisely the same thing. In fact, during the fall of Simfur, I did—unless you make some distinction between shooting Decepticon patrols in the back, and killing them in their berths. I am sorry, Ratchet, but I see nothing here to justify your … your reaction."

Everyone in the room knew he had deliberately chosen a word that was not "paranoia."

Jazz said, "Ah agree, Ratch. Her story checks, an' besides that, she's come through for us too many times. You're wrong about this."

Ratchet threw his servos up. "All right. Have it your way. I won't interfere."

Diarwen said, "Ratchet, would it reassure you if I took an oath to defend Optimus, to the death if need be, and never to do him harm? Does my word of honor mean anything at all to you? For I will do so, Optimus. I cannot follow you, however, if you set yourself against Queen Titania—I am already her sworn knight, and the oath I swore first must take precedence."

Optimus said, "Diarwen, wait. I do not want you to take such an oath. I know that you will defend me, for you have already done so. But, should I ever Fall, I would hope that there are those around me with the optics to see it happening, and the will to deactivate me in my berth. I do not wish to become what the Fallen, and Nemesis, and Sentinel were. You four are my only defense against that. I am afraid that everyone else would follow me blindly."

"You ask too much of me," Diarwen said, looking up at him with eyes brimming with tears; she was not the only one, either. "Should such a thing happen, I would see you free of whatever dark geas overcame you, though it meant my end. But you will have to find your assassin elsewhere. If for _anything_ I lay aside my honor, it will be for love of you."

"I would never give you cause to do that, not of my own free will," Optimus replied.

Ratchet was, against _his_ will, reassured by this speech of the Sidhe's. And as a practical bot, could see that any further action against Diarwen would be futile, and most likely counterproductive. He blinked his optics clear of coolant, and offered, "Diarwen, I'll take no further action against you."

She didn't smile, but she did meet his optics. "For that I thank you. I hope in time to prove to you that I am not the threat you believe me to be." She paused, and Jazz felt her fields settle a bit, though sorrow and guilt were still uppermost. "I know that according to your customs we are now kindred. I do not expect such of you, Ratchet; as things stand between us, that would be extraordinarily difficult for us both. Let us begin by exchanging nothing save the common courtesy due one warrior from another."

Ratchet nodded curtly, then, to Diarwen's swiftly-muted amusement, gave the door a significant look. He couldn't throw the Prime and two fellow officers, there on official business, out of his office, but he could make it no clearer that he wished them to absent themselves.

Optimus extended his servo to Diarwen, and she stepped onto his palm. He followed Jazz and Prowl out into the hall.

Jazz sent a ping. ::Boss bot?::

::Jazz.::

:: Don't let her do what you do, grieve that she couldn't save them all. Because no one could.::

Jazz felt Optimus' surprise from half a hallway away. ::Very well, Jazz, and thank you.::

The last glyph sent was an acknowledgement of indebtedness combined with a firm farewell, but Jazz had more in his cube. ::Don't you do it either.::

The ghost of a chuckle drifted back over the comm line, and Optimus entered his quarters with Diarwen.

(End Part Fifteen)


	16. Chapter 16

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Sixteen

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mexico)

El Cuyo was so tiny that by nine PM the sidewalks were metaphorically rolled up and neatly stored out of sight. Five hours after that, Bee rolled into another village lit only by infrequent street lamps, and his own headlights.

"I wish we'd thought to get something to eat on the road," Seymour Simmons said, rubbing his leg.

Fig, who was pretending to drive, said, "Yeah, me too."

Bee's radio said, "Cart … still open. Santos … recommended."

"Toquega's?" Simmons said, hope dawning. "How fast can you get us there?"

"Hell, yeah," Fig said. "Food _and_ entertainment. That family's better than reality TV."

The Toquegas, a multigenerational extended family, ran their food carts from permanent pads in what the gringos would have called the front yard. "Cart" was a misnomer, however: its only permanent fixture seemed to be the gas stove and grill at one end. The tables and chairs were rough-hewn, the floor that concrete pad, and the walls and ceiling were canvas. In summer, the walls were rolled up to the ceiling and tied into place to let the breeze through. The local flies liked it almost as much as the local humans.

Toquega's was the locals' hangout, as Santos had told Simmons. The tourists didn't know it existed, and the floods of invective the family loosed at one another would have driven away all but the deaf, anyway.

Seventy-three seconds after Fig's endorsement, Bee slid sideways into a parking space near the Toquega family residence. The "food cart" still operated, though it was pushing two AM; the stove chuffed out something so delicious even to smell that Simmons' belly grumbled. At this time of night it served very few, mostly the village's bartenders, pimps, and prostitutes, as well as the members of the area's preeminent drug cartel, but those few ate hearty.

A couple of hard-edged young men, black-haired, black-eyed, black-bearded, lurked in each of the corners, wearing camo from five years ago and boots that had seen better days. One carried an old rifle and bandolier, another a scarred but still serviceable AK-47. A few had a holster placed oddly, to be seen rather than used, which meant they had another gun in easier reach.

Or that was the safe assumption, anyway, since they were still alive.

The _pater__familias_, Mr. Toquega himself, stood at the register with a four-foot machete shoved through his belt, while his younger son ran the stove with a machete only slightly shorter through his own, and the butt of a pistol sticking out of his back pocket.

Simmons wouldn't have cared if a giraffe were doing the cooking and had to shoot the food to get it to stay on the grill. He placed an order, part of which would be good to eat cold if his eyes were bigger than his stomach. Fig did the same.

The cart was out of bottled water or juice: "Tomorrow," said Mr. Toquega, in Spanish that was clearly not his mother tongue. "I got tea. You like tea?"

"Not mate," the two agents said together. Mr. Toquega scowled at the rich American tourists out to make his life difficult, and allowed that he had some that wasn't mate. With ill grace, he went to the back door of the cart, and shouted something into the house behind it. A younger son returned with a packet of envelopes.

The tea that resulted tasted a lot like old boots, worn by someone who didn't wash his feet all that often, but it was wet and it was boiled, the latter a criterion more urgent than flavor.

Simmons, however, was careful to oh-so-casually take his gun from the holster and look it over, popping the magazine out and replacing it, before he turned his attention to the tea.

The hard cases stopped watching the rich _norteamericanos_—all _norteamericanos _were rich—with hungry eyes. Terrorizing a lamed tourist was one thing. Facing down a guy who could do what Simmons had just done, which spoke of intimate acquaintance with his weapon, was quite another.

The place was even smaller than El Cuyo had been. Fig wondered what it was like after the cart shut down.

The entertainment began halfway through the first pot; Mrs. Toquega, to judge by the voice, opened with a volley of gutturals and consonants clearly unconnected by any vowels. A lighter, younger feminine voice answered, not politely, to judge from the tone. The exchanged continued unabated for several minutes, then Mr. Toquega joined in. Younger son added his mite, and then the women, with the air of having listened politely to nothing that mattered very much, resumed their conversation.

Both agents' phones rang. They looked at one another in surprise, and took the call. Bee's collection of clips said, "The daughter...got pregnant by...a guard. He told...the girl that...they were...being sent to...El Cu-yo, which...must have been...what the...guards were...told. But she got a...letter today from...Playa del...Carmen."

Fig pushed away the second empty pot. "Holy crap. Bee, when did you learn to speak this language, and _how_?"

"Yesterday, and the internet."

The two men looked at each other, each with an ear pressed to his cellphone, and laughed. Simmons said, "Okay. Let's get out of here and get our ducks in a row."

Fig snagged a couple of tea bags on the way out, tossing a bill to Mr. Toquega on the way by which almost made that worthy smile.

Bee took them back to the motel in which they'd stayed the night before; the manager was more than happy to climb out of bed and re-register _los __gringos __con_ e_l __coche __amarillo __caliente__. _He might have been quite surprised to find that _el __coche __amarillo __caliente_ joined _los __gringos_, though not in person, in their room for some impromptu planning over cold Mexican food and tea produced by Fig's immersion heater.

At 8 AM sharp they called Santos, who bade them come to his office. Bee took them into Merida, dropped them off, and found a parking spot.

Santos waited for them at the door to his office. "C'mon in," he said, jerking his head, and shut the door after them.

The room was very plain, with a suspicious-looking mold map of Brazil turning the paint pretty shades of blue and green in one corner. Santos had a locked bookcase and a clean desk, otherwise, with a calendar, a pot of pens, and a computer monitor atop it.

He sat at his desk and looked from one of them to the other, and then shook his head. "How the hell did you guys get that information?"

Simmons sighed, and dug his phone out of a pocket. "Best let my source tell you himself," he said, and dialed Bumblebee, putting the phone on speaker.

He wished he had it, or more accurately its camera, back when he explained to the young scout that Bee needed to tell Santos how he'd acquired their intel. The man's eyes and mouth formed perfect Os, and his eyebrows umlauts.

"Um. Yes. I see. But wait … how did you learn that language? The Agency doesn't expect us to know it. It's pretty complex."

Bee didn't laugh, exactly. But both Simmons and Fig felt the wave of amusement in his voice when he said, "Not for...a...Cybertronian. We can...commit...verb conjugations...noun and...adjective...declensions...and grammar rules...to memory...in a...single reading."

"Wow," Santos said. "All that and kick major ass along with it."

"But you can...do things...we cannot. Fish...for pleasure...for instance."

"Ain't no consolation," Santos said drily. "Tell you what, though, I better leave off the fan-boy stuff. How can I help you today, and can my guys get a look-in when you're done?"

The two men from NEST exchanged glances. "Don't see why not," Simmons said finally. "It'll go down like this: if we can't rescue the two Cybertronians, they each get a bullet through the spark casing, and our involvements ends at that point. Be happy to give you what help we can on the way out."

Santos markedly did not glance at the source of Bee's telepresence. The young Transformer said, "Agent Santos, if we cannot rescue our fellows, the Autobots will not permit them to become a weapon to be used against humans. What Seymour just told you is the only sure way to prevent that. We may not like the necessity, as there are so very few of us surviving the genocide undertaken throughout the Cybertronian Empire, but we cannot deny it."

He didn't add, "And I saw for myself how much giving that order pained Optimus Prime." He also did not say that Simmons wouldn't be taking any such action while he, Bee, was still alive. Bee had no intention of having to report to Optimus, or to Sam, that he had killed a defenseless Cybertronian in cold energon.

"I see," said Santos, sounding faintly stunned.

"If we can rescue them," Simmons said carefully, "we'll load them into Bee and get clear of the area as fast as we can. At that point, it's all yours."

"You do know that you'll be facing air support as well as ground troops. Well-mounted, heavily-armed ground troops in great numbers."

"Gimme details," Simmons said.

"You can expect the same thing from these guys as from the enemy troops in Afghanistan, though they don't have as many rocket launchers, and they don't make as much use of IEDs. That's the new model—paramilitaries who fund their operations running drugs. They'll be in technicals and SUVs. _El __Abejorro _shouldn't have any trouble outrunning them. Like I said, the big problem will be helicopters. I don't think they have any gunships but there will be door gunners with AK-47s and rocket launchers."

"How do you fire a rocket launcher from the door of a helicopter?"

"Very carefully, and the pre-qualification is being crazy," Santos replied, "but don't be surprised if they try it anyway."

"Oy."

"Don't underestimate these bastards."

"I won't...underestimate..._anybody_ who...lets off a...shoulder-fired rocket...in my direction," Bee said tartly, and the three humans laughed.

Twenty minutes later, Simmons realized he'd been serious, and started to worry about getting an injured Cybertronian home.

At ten AM Fig and Simmons returned to the hotel room and slept for four hours.

At two, when the rest of the population was heading into siesta, they cajoled four meals and six bottles of water, six of fruit juice, from Toquega's, before Mrs. Toquega retired for her beauty sleep.

Before leaving the dusty, sleepy little village behind, they also bought Bee's lunch at a gas station, adding the required 19.6 ounces of reagent-grade ethanol to his tank.

Bee drove, and Simmons took over the back and stretched out his leg, while Fig reclined the passenger seat.

They didn't have a lot to say to each other. Their plans were set, and they were ready.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mission City Base)

Given a heads-up by Jazz, Wheeljack let Ratchet stew in his office for the rest of the joor. Then he got energon rations for them both, and took these to the medic.

The inventor was not all surprised to find the door locked. He sent a querying glyph, and was ignored. Ratchet was in a fine sulk.

Most people would have been surprised to learn that Wheeljack had been working as an engineer with the Wreckers when war broke out. Of course, the impatience of other employers with his ability to blow up his lab, and the Wreckers' willingness to put up with the odd explosion now and then, both had a lot to do with that. The salvage work they had done before the war required them to do demolitions work in some precarious areas.

They had found an engineer who was skilled with explosives to be a handy addition to their team, and he had been grateful for their protection as Cybertron descended into Megatron-powered chaos.

Ratchet knew his history, however, and was aware that Wheeljack had a Wrecker's stubborn streak. If he wanted in, he would eventually get in, if he had to go to his lab and mix up something to blow open the door to do so.

So Wheeljack, knowing that Ratchet knew that, settled in to wait out the medic: that was all he had to do. After a while, the lock clicked open, and Wheeljack went inside.

He had half-expected to find Ratchet drunk, but the old curmudgeon had stayed out of the high grade. Which was good, but only to be expected when they were so short. For all his faults, Ratchet was an extremely honorable and upright bot.

He settled onto the visitor's chair. The medic hadn't looked at him, didn't make eye contact now. "What's going on, Ratch?"

"I wish I knew."

"Here, you haven't had your ration yet. You need to refuel."

"I don't want it."

"Drink it anyway. It isn't like there's a lot to choke down."

Ratchet growled a curse.

"If you want to be left alone, redlining won't accomplish that."

"Yes, it will. Permanently, eventually. And you're not leaving me alone now."

"No, I'm not. Ratchet, come on, just drink it. Then, if you want me to go, I will."

"All right, fraggit." The old medic downed his energon, then sat contemplating the empty cube for a few minutes.

Wheeljack waited patiently. He knew from experience that Ratchet would growl him out of the office if he wasn't ready to talk, but eventually he'd open up, at least about part of it.

After a while, Ratchet looked up. "How did I get to this?"

"I'm not sure that I understand that myself."

"Stop trying to smooth it over. You think the old bot's lost it, just like everybot else does."

"No, Ratchet, I don't think anybot believes you've lost it. But I'm a bit confused about just why Diarwen is so much more of a threat than the rest of us. Unless it's that something no bigger than she is can be a serious threat to any of us."

"That's part of it. I don't think enough of these bots are taking her seriously because she _is_ little, even compared to most humans, but I don't give a frag what kind of a frame she has, you know that! She's a stone-cold killer and we've got four others on this base—Jazz, Sunstreaker, Barricade, and Lennox. And the only one that Prime's recharging with is Diarwen."

"Well, that we know of..."

"It wasn't a joke!"

"I know. I'm sorry. But there are worse situations to be in than having a stone-cold killer looking out for you," Wheeljack pointed out. "You forgot to put the Wreckers on that list, and believe me, there have been times over the vorn that I didn't mind letting mecha like that have my back."

"How could I have misread the situation so badly?" The medic leaned over his desk and put his helm in his hands.

Wheeljack ex-vented. "That's what has me worried, Ratchet. You're one of the best judges of character I've ever known. Something's been _off_ about this entire situation, and it truly has me concerned."

"What are you saying? You _do_ think I've lost it."

"No, I don't. Not like that. But you've had to do without having your coding audited for a long time—since Smokescreen disappeared, or I miss my guess. You're supposed to have it done, what, once a vorn? Medical coding is so Pit-be-damned restrictive. An error that would cause any of the rest of us a minor glitch could very well result in this sort of problem for you."

"I always thought I'd get conflicts, throw alerts, when that kind of thing started happening."

"There's no guarantee of that, and you know that as well as I do, if not better. You need to do a self-audit. A thorough defrag and then a comparison against your oldest backup, at the least. You know, it could be a good thing that this happened as it did. There's no real harm done, after all."

"I'm not so sure about that. Chromia still wants my helm on a platter, and she should, because I caused Optimus a lot of trouble." Ratchet was staring at nothing again.

Wheeljack shrugged. "If there is a logical explanation, it'll all blow over soon enough."

Ratchet ex-vented an almost human-sounding sigh. "Take me off the rotation. I'm going to do this in my quarters."

Wheeljack stood up. "I'll check on you after every shift. Let me know if you need anything in between times. We have enough medics now to cover medbay. We won't have to disturb you unless there's a big emergency."

"Thanks, 'Jack. You're a real pal."

Wheeljack smiled, a little sadly. "That's me, old mech, a real pal."

Being a medic hath its privileges. Ratchet had no trouble repairing himself…well, physically, at any rate. His "for their own good" programming module seemed to be so damaged that he had no choice but to disable it.

When he next needed extra storage, for some addenda to a complex-but-common bit of human medicine, he overwrote it entirely.

He never told anyone how much better that left him feeling. The gossip was that he was sick, since he stopped throwing wrenches for a time.

Wheeljack made sure that Prime, Chromia and Diarwen knew the truth, in order to put the feud to rest once and for all. Jazz and Prowl, he knew, would have figured out what was happening when Ratchet sequestered himself in his quarters for so long. Beyond those five, it was none of anyone's business.

Wheeljack checked on Ratchet two joor after the medic told him the procedure was finished, giving him time for a good long recharge. He pinged the medic's apartment door, and it opened for him. He found Ratchet sitting at his table, still looking rough, a stack of unread datapads in front of him.

"How are you holding up, Ratchet?"

"Better than I would have been if I hadn't had you to keep me refueled."

Wheeljack felt warm next to his spark. "It was no trouble at all. That's why I came by, actually. I was on my way to get my next ration. Would you like to go out in the sun with me for a while, or would you prefer for me to bring your ration back here?"

Ratchet realized he was embarrassed to go outside. Now that he could look back over his actions with a clear processor, he was absolutely mortified. He had wronged Diarwen. In her place, he would have been throwing wrenches or worse. She had been extremely patient and understanding.

But he couldn't hide in his quarters and never come out again, no matter how attractive that seemed. He had his duties, which he had been forced to leave to others for far too long. "I'll come out with you for a while, but I need to get to medbay."

"Not really. No one's in there now, and I brought the reports with me. You can read a datapad anywhere. Is your processor still aching?"

"It is, but it's not too bad, really. There's a little bit of an ache, but it's worth it not to have that bad code snarling everything. It would have been a lot worse if you hadn't figured out what was happening. I lost a module that I can do without, but if it had caused others to fail—code that we need—Jack, I'm glad Excellion brought us more medics."

Jack smiled at him more kindly than Ratchet thought he deserved. "No one should have to carry as much responsibility alone for as long as you have. I wonder if the stress had something to do with this glitch in the first place. Now that Percy's here and settled in, you'll be able to take a joor off now and then and relax."

"I'm looking forward to it. Not sure yet what I'll do with spare time."

"What did you do before?"

"Went to the races a lot. I belonged to a strateka league for a while. Just different things like that. But none of that even exists anymore." The medic rubbed his temples.

"Well, then, we'll have to think of something, won't we? Or found a strateka league here. Too bad we can't teach the humans that game."

"We could teach Sam. Mearing, maybe Simmons too, most likely D'andre in a few more years."

"Well then," Wheeljack said with a grin.

Ratchet nodded. "That's a good idea. I know Drift and Percy both play, some of the civilians probably do too. —I'm going to hit the wash racks before I get my energon. Meet you outside in a couple of breem?"

"I'll take your ration out with me."

"Thanks."

Standing under the solvent spray, Ratchet began to feel more like a bot and less like a mobile collection of scrap. He still had a slight processor ache, to be expected after what he had put himself through, but it started to ease under the gentle patter of the spray on his helm. He enjoyed it for a few moments before reaching for his scrub brush.

Sunlight on clean plating felt good, too, and when he saw Wheeljack with his energon cube, he realized how hungry he was. Cut with ethanol, there was enough volume to fool his sensors into reading a half-full tank, which stopped the hunger alerts from pinging every astroklick.

And it was a nice warm day. He settled in next to Wheeljack and accepted the datapad that the inventor offered. "Thanks, pal."

"Pal." Wheeljack wasn't quite guarded enough around Ratchet to hide the flash of pain that term caused him, but the medic was focused on his datapad, and missed it.

There had been no serious problems on the bot side of medbay during his absence. Wheelie had run off the edge of a table and cracked a plate; easily welded. Perceptor performed a full scan of the minibot, and there was no other damage.

Chromia had herded Ironhide in to have his joints scanned, to make sure he wasn't growing a new crop of metal spurs—so far, so good.

Stormy had lost an argument with a rock sticking out of a cliff and scraped a sizable piece of mesh off his wing. He was an unhappy little mech to have to put up with a patch until it self-repaired, but there was nothing more that Ratchet could do for it than Moonracer already had—and it was a boo-boo, not a severe injury, thank Primus. Though, just in case, he looked up and scanned the mechling to make sure his wing hadn't been knocked out of alignment.

Craftmasters always double-checked the work of their apprentices and journeymen; that was one of their duties, but the young cycleformer did good work. He pinged her saying so, and received grateful, if startled, glyphs in return.

Chromia approached. Ratchet tensed and sent a respectful welcome glyph.

She pulled him into a brief hug, which allowed him to feel her relief for his recovery, before she transformed and put out her kickstand to relax next to him. "You feeling better, Ratchet?"

"Yeah, I am, thanks."

Her field meshed lightly with the outer layers of his, and there was no longer the undercurrent of angry contempt that had made him so nervous for the last three orn. So, someone had explained for him, and that someone had to be Wheeljack.

Ratchet thought that he should be upset about that invasion of his privacy, but he wasn't. It saved him a very awkward explanation. And Wheeljack would not have committed it without a solid reason to do so.

Because he'd done that, Chromia was acting like nothing had ever happened. And, he knew, the rest of the cohort would follow her lead.

Maybe it really was going to be all right.

(End Part Sixteen)


	17. Chapter 17

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Seventeen

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The next morning, Diarwen returned to her apartment following a hard workout. After eating an apple for breakfast and refreshing her wards, she drew up new reading lists for all of her new students, as well as updated those of others who were ready for new material. Optimus and Prowl especially kept her hopping to supply their voracious reading habits. By the time she finished that, and emailed them out to everyone, the morning had nearly passed. She put her copy of the reading lists into her bag and went to the galley for lunch, then wandered out into the commons.

She sensed a hesitant approach and turned to see Ratchet hovering between talking to her and retreating to his medbay.

She said, "Good joor, Ratchet."

"And to you," he replied. "Diarwen, I was wondering if I might speak to you."

"Of course; what is wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I wanted to ask you some questions about what you said regarding that, ah, spell I used."

The last three words were low in pitch and, she was sure, aimed pretty directly at Diarwen and her alone. His fields were controlled, but they still betrayed traces of embarrassment to someone with the ability to sense them. Therefore Diarwen nodded to the enemy she once did not know she had. Then she revised that thought; perhaps enemy was the wrong word...Ratchet's irrational actions where she was concerned had been prompted by a programming glitch, which, according to Wheeljack, was now a thing of the past. A parallel might be a singular episode of mental illness in a friend, something Diarwen had seen in both the Sidhe and her human acquaintances. While she would be cautious around him, for the sake of her relationship with Optimus, she would forgive him and move on, and give him the opportunity to regain her trust. "Of course. Would you prefer to discuss it in your office?"

Grateful for the offer of privacy, Ratchet said, "Yes, I would, if that's all right with you."

"Surely," she said, with dignity, and waved to Mikaela before she followed the medic to his office.

Ratchet waited for Diarwen to reach the top of his desk before he closed the door.

Once she was seated in the chair there, he took his own chair, and folded his servos together on the desk in front of him, taking a large in-vent and holding it for a moment. Then he said, "Lady Diarwen, I wronged you, and my actions could have done you great harm. I disgraced myself, and brought shame upon my cohort, including my Prime. I am sorry. I will make amends to you in any way that I can."

She read only sincerity in his aura, and met his blue optics squarely with her silver eyes. "I understand that what happened was the ultimate result of an unavoidable lack of maintenance. I have known privation, Ratchet. During such times, we can only do our best and hope that all comes out well in the end. I forgive you, and release any debt. I am sorry if my lack of understanding of your situation made things worse."

He didn't precisely wince. "Under the circumstances, with the knowledge that you had at the time, I think you showed a great deal of restraint."

"Perhaps. At any rate, let us begin anew." She rose and bowed to him. "Diarwen ni Gilthanel, at your service, Master Healer."

"Ratchet, Lady Diarwen. Thank you."

She reseated herself and said, "Now. Tell me exactly what it was that you did."

He hardlined to a human-sized datapad, handling it easy with a small sub-servo transformed from one of his digits, then retracted the hardline and offered her the pad. "I found this on the Internet."

She looked over the spell, downloaded from a fairly respectable web site. The site emphasized wording the spell so that it would not affect its target unless that person intended harm. "Did you use this phrasing precisely as written here?"

"Yes."

"I think had your glitch not affected your ability to form intent, this spell would have done what it says. I may well not have even noticed it was there until I had already stepped through it, which would have unraveled it harmlessly." She exhaled with the relief of having a small, niggling doubt fully removed. "Ratchet, having seen this, I do not believe you acted out of malice. Especially when I think of the other spells that were used at the same time this one was likely created. Some of the humans were very...creative in protecting themselves and their property from my kind. Had you meant harm, you could have found much more dangerous curses, hexes or jinxes to attempt, instead of a ward."

"Is there a difference among them?"

"Oh, aye. A ward's primary function is to protect, either by creating an alarm or by providing a barrier, or in this case, by discharging lightning if its triggers were met. Had I left it alone, by climbing out the window for example, it would have simply stayed there—and unless some other Sidhe who intended harm to Optimus attempted to pass through that doorway, it might never have gone off. Mikaela could have used the door as if the ward were not there.

"Curses, hexes and jinxes, on the other hand, are intended to do harm. The terms are often used interchangeably in human traditions, but there are distinct types of these spells in Sidhe tradition, and these are the terms which have been used in English for many years to translate the Sidhe terminology. A curse generally calls upon the gods to bring down misfortune or ruin upon the head of a specific person such as an enemy, or upon any person in the future who performs a forbidden act, like stealing a book or desecrating a grave. A common form of curse is a binding to prevent a lover from straying."

The medic tilted his helm to one side. "That's...manipulative, at best."

"Aye, but how many among the humans—or Sidhe, for that matter—can think without involving their genitals?"

Ratchet grinned, but made no comment on how Cybertronians fit into that equation.

Diarwen went on, "Curses can affect the descendants of the cursed individual for several generations. A curse can be attached to an object, to harm the person who owns or takes or even touches it. A _geas_ is a specific type of curse which compels its victim to do something, rather like a magical sort of obsessive-compulsive disorder."

"You're describing something that has to be planned and thought out beforehand, though. Malice aforethought, as it were."

"Oh, aye," Diarwen said, and clasped her hands over one knee. "In nearly all cases, a curse is premeditated. Though they may take effect immediately, or may not come to fruition for years, in all cases the witch pronouncing the curse must make the conscious decision to will harm upon the victim. And, in all cases, cursing incurs karma. All energy that is sent out into the world returns, most traditions say in threes, though I have found that it is not quite so mathematical. And, not only the caster can be affected. Innocent parties connected to the caster can also be caught up in the backlash—just as a shot can go astray and strike an unintended target. There is always a cost, though it may not be a very high one if there is great justification for casting the curse, and if doing so prevents a much greater harm. For instance, sometimes it is not possible to slay or banish a demon. The only option left is to bind it, and a binding is a curse. My Goddess understands that, when it is impossible to do _no_ harm, we must do the _least __possible_ harm. If that is a curse, then so be it. Still, if mundane means will suffice, it is almost _never_ a good idea to curse someone. I tell my students, do not curse. There is almost always a better way to accomplish what a curse does."

Ratchet's fans kicked on: he blushed. "Had I been thinking correctly, I would have talked to you long before things got the point they did."

"I have no doubt," Diarwen said cheerfully. "Had the issue not been resolved for you before Excellion's arrival, those who knew you previously might have pointed out the differences in your aura, your fields I mean, when they arrived."

"That's possible," Ratchet said thoughtfully. "I'll take that away and see what can be done with it. But please, tell me more."

"Surely," the Sidhe smiled. "In my tradition, a hex is an immediate baneful—harmful—spell. Most attack spells are hexes. They are weapons. To call a hex good or evil is the same as to call a sword good or evil—all its intent derives from the hand that wields it."

"You mentioned jinxes too."

"Aye, that I did. Jinxes are specialized. They bring down ill fortune on their target—or, they can leave the target untouched while bringing bad luck down on everyone around that person. They are simple, quick to cast, and very effective in combat if your opponent does not know how to dispel them. In the American military, they have a term for this—Murphy's Law."

Ratchet quickly looked that up. "I see!"

The Sidhe was looking at him curiously. "But all of this, I think, does not tell you what you need to know...?"

He shook his helm. "Not...exactly."

She waited, but he said nothing. Finally, she asked, "What is it, Ratchet?"

The medic blew an ex-vent. "Since I set that ward, the energy for casting a spell is there...all the time. More so now that my programming is no longer snarled by that corrupted code. I thought it would go away in time, but it hasn't. I remember what you said, that I might not have to cast a spell to make things happen. How do I stop that from happening? More importantly, how can I use it to help my patients?"

"The energy is there. The truth is, that it has always been. But once you become aware of it, there is no going back. You cannot unring a bell, Ratchet. Now, you are left with a lifetime of learning, and practice."

"After what I've done, I can't ask you to teach me. But the potential that this has to heal and cure conditions that I no longer have the technology to remedy? How can I not ask you?"

"As one healer to another, how could I refuse?" Diarwen replied, with a smile. "You are a healer, as am I. Our differences are behind us. I should be honored to teach you."

"Where do I begin?"

She took out her ever-present datapad and created a file of beginners' books, then sent the file to Ratchet. "It would be best to read them in order. The first are what witches tend to call 'Witchcraft 101' books. They provide a basis for study. I have also given you a book on spellcrafting, which will help you to understand the different parts of a spell and how they work. Once you understand the basics of spellcrafting, you will learn to control your own energies and avoid accidental magic. Finally, I have included a book on the magical uses of various minerals such as stones and crystals, even the seven magical metals, as I have found in teaching Optimus that this seems to be the best beginning for Cybertronians to learn magical healing. Once you have learned the principles, we may move on to energy work, and then to herbology, which you will certainly need to understand in order to treat human patients.

"Ratchet, I was startled to learn—and I should not have been—that the basic elements of worship among the followers of Primus are parallel to the basics among my people, and among those elements common to the human faiths which originated in Europe and around the Mediterranean. Your first assignment will be to discuss your faith's restrictions on the use of magic with Optimus and Burnout. I am learning all that I can of your religion, but I am not at all qualified to discuss what is and is not permitted to you."

"I'm not sure what I was expecting. This sounds like any college class I've ever attended."

"Learning is learning. As you know, we meet at Buzzard Rock at 0530 hours every morning. First we train, then we have our study circle for half an hour, then we meditate for fifteen minutes, and we are back to base by 0730 hours so that everyone can be where they are supposed to be by Colors at 0800. Unless you are on duty or needed elsewhere, please try not to miss our sessions."

"I'll be there. But half an hour doesn't really give you time to cast spells or anything, does it?"

"Good observation. It does and it does not, as one can do a great deal in half an hour. But the purpose of this circle is to learn. You will have to budget your own time in order to do the necessary reading and research and practice what you have learned out of class. That will take more than half an hour every morning. Also, from time to time, I will teach individually. None of you are following the exact same course of study, and some things—particularly as you advance—will require more intensive training, especially in healing."

"Diarwen, thank you."

"None are needed. It is my duty, and my great joy, to pass on the knowledge which has been entrusted to me. Teaching became my role in life when I became a high priestess."

Ratchet nodded. A craftmaster, in any of Cybertron's recognized craft guilds, also took on the responsibility and privilege of overseeing the education of apprentices. It felt odd to be an apprentice again after all these vorn—but it was also a very familiar situation to him. He understood what was expected of him, and would meet those expectations.

The Sidhe smiled warmly. "I will leave you to it then. Chromia is expecting me presently."

"Of course. Good joor, Lady Diarwen."

"And to you." She tucked her datapad in her satchel, settled the bag over her shoulder, and lightly descended the stairs rather than simply jump from the desktop as she would have done before her injury.

Though, she thought, it would one day be possible for her to do so again. Just as Imbolc marked the first stirrings of Spring after the long winter, so her magic had begun to stir again. She did not know what level of mastery she would achieve in this turning of the wheel, but Spring was definitely on its way.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

"Ratchet?" Diarwen's voice came floating into med bay later that afternoon, followed by the Sidhe herself. "May I speak with you?"

She didn't glance at Jolt as she said that. Ratchet, who was much better at reading fields than he gave himself credit for, nodded briefly to his apprentice and offered the Sidhe his palm.

Once inside his office, with the Sidhe on his desk in the human-sized chair he kept for non-Cybertronian visitors, his aft in the chair, and his door shut, he said, "How can I help you, Diarwen?"

She gave a shaky laugh, and he noted then that the skin between her silver eyebrows was contracted into a wrinkle. "It is not I who needs help, Ratchet. I think it might be Optimus."

The medic frowned at her, startled. But she would not be the first family member to bring to his attention their loved one's issues. "I see. What have you observed?"

Diarwen sighed, and crossed one leg over the other, clasping her hands over the top knee."Optimus' aura—that part of his fields observable by humans and Sidhe trained to see it—is normally a mix of violet, clear bright gold, and a very dark blue. Up until yesterday I had noticed no changes in it, but he was standing in the sun, and his aura looked much paler than usual. I said nothing at the time, but when we got back inside, his aura did not brighten as I expected. When I saw him today, it was still pale, and I…I thought to tell you." She gave him another of those shaky smiles. "I know you cannot tell me more, but I am willing to tell you anything I know."

"The differences in our perceptions," he said slowly, "makes it hard for me to truly understand what you saw. But the next time I see Optimus," he flashed a smile at Optimus' lover, "I'll observe him a little more closely than I am used to doing. Thank you, Diarwen."

He saw her to the door of med bay, where she nodded politely to Wheeljack, who was coming in. Wheeljack took one look at Ratchet and said, "I can come back if I need to, but it's pretty urgent."

For answer, Ratchet jerked his head at his office.

Wheeljack left a very few minutes later. Ratchet emerged from his office like a cold front bearing down on a picnic, and said grimly to Jolt, "The bay's yours for a bit. I've got to take care of something."

"That's not like you," a startled Jolt said, to which Ratchet replied not at all, only waved a servo in farewell.

Half the base away, Hot Rod's optics swiveled between Bulkhead and Roadbuster. "That's not like you," he said to Roadbuster, "and it's not like _you_ either." This last was addressed to Bulkhead.

Rodi's sept leader glared at the other sept leader. "Kid's right," Bulkhead snarled. "You been on my nerves for almost an orn now, an' you ain't been doin' nothing different."

"Well," snapped Roadbuster, "_you_ ain't been doin' nothin' different, neither, and you got so far up my nose I'm gonna have to unscrew my helm to get you out!"

"So don't you think," Rodi said carefully, addressing this remark to neither and both of the enraged mechs before him, "that it might be a good idea to get checked out by Ratchet? I mean, if you…if this is a result of programming, you can't get rid of it and it won't go away. Maybe Ratchet can find a way to let us hold The Contest sooner."

They had, all seven of them (counting Wheeljack and Steeljaw), been debating how to structure The Contest to decide who would ultimately be the leader of the Wreckers. Coding for The Contest was no small part of Wrecker programming, and had to be executed when the environmental conditions for it were met.

If it wasn't, increasingly irascible behavior on the part of the mechs who would normally contest for leadership would become worse over time. A very short time, as those mechs were finding out.

Roadbuster glared at Bulkhead some more, and then switched the glare to Hot Rod. "Damn' good thinkin', kid!" he roared. "But _you_," he swung back to Bulkhead with no drop in volume, "you told him that we have this problem, slag-for-brains!"

"A'course I did, mud-head! In case you forget, me an' Rodi's a sept o' two! There ain't no else to teach him! An' I ain't gonna let _you_ teach 'im! You'd teach 'im all wrong!"

"All right," Wheeljack said, and both sept leaders jumped, "that's enough. We're going to see Ratchet right now, all of us."

"You ain't my sept leader," Bulkead said, servos on hip struts: you are not the boss of me.

Wheeljack said, "Hot Rod, would you bring Bulkhead with us, please?" and applied a medical override to a startled Roadbuster, who in consequence came quietly.

That medical override was specialty programming only encoded for Wreckers. Every sept had at least one member who could use it; it was sometimes necessary to immobilize another Wrecker, or enforce compliance when removing a sept-member from a dangerous location. Some kinds of radiation could scramble a mech's programming so thoroughly that only the medical override would get them, and their rescuers, out safety.

Rodi, however, shuffled his peds and didn't look his sept leader in the optic. "I…can't," he said, miserably. "He's my sept leader."

"Medical override," Wheeljack said crisply, and sent Rodi the code. He'd get a chewing later, in fact two, one from each sept leader, for overriding a sept leader's privilege. Even while they admitted the necessity (and somewhat sheepishly on Bulkhead's part, as it had been his job to impart the coding to Rodi), they were the sept leaders, and they would not cede control.

And if not to one another, then not to anyone else, either. Period. Until medically overridden.

Thus, Jolt was busy restocking the med bay when his world was suddenly filled with Wreckers.

"Jolt," Wheeljack said, "we need to see Ratchet."

"He's with another patient right now," Jolt said, scrupulously respecting patient confidentiality. "Can I he-"

Ratchet chose that moment to bellow, "I don't care if you _are_ the Prime! You may not starve yourself into unfitness for combat!" And there went patient confidentiality, right out the nearest window. Which medbay didn't actually have one of, but ...

The rival sept leaders exchanged a startled glance. Rodi's optics unfocused. He said to Bulkhead, "The Prime has just pinged me. If I leave you here, will you stay?"

"A'course. I gotta. I know that now."

Rodi gave them all a nod, and strode off in the direction of Ratchet's voice.

The sept leaders made shy eye contact with one another. Bulkhead said to Roadbuster, "Maybe we should ask if Jolt can help us?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"I'll be happy to," Jolt said, wondering how he was going to treat two patients at once, and maintain confidentiality. "Can you give me an idea of what the problem might be?"

He got two, in quick succession, and then Wheeljack's more measured analysis. "The Wrecker coding to choose one leader only in a clan has been activated in Roadbuster and Bulkhead," he said to the young medic. "As Bulkhead was the only adult Wrecker on board Excellion after the evacuation of Tyger Pax, that's a role he had to fulfill. Now that he's here with Roadbuster, he can't voluntarily step down. He has to be beaten into submission – or," Wheeljack added hastily, paint blistering a little under Bulkhead's glare, "defeat Roadbuster in what's known as The Contest. When it's over, the septs will be able to unite into one clan under a single leader, the mech who won. Right now the leaders are experiencing a somewhat intense form of animosity toward one another which will only worsen over time."

Or as the humans would put it, alpha males do not tolerate the presence of other alpha males very well.

Jolt said uncertainly, "And you wanted to see if Ratchet could tweak the coding?"

"No!" bellowed both sept leaders. Roadbuster went on, "We want ta see how fast we can save up part o' our rations so we can hold The Contest sooner!"

"Oh! So it's a simple problem of metabolic arithmetic. Well, I'll need to have each of you stand on the scale, and ex-vent into an analyzer. I assume you're all getting the standard rations, and that you want to maintain battle readiness?" He went about prepping for these tests.

"'A course," the two would-be combatants said, in a tone of voice which meant that the latter part of Jolt's question had been very stupid indeed.

When Ratchet left Hot Rod alone with the Prime, at Prime's request, he found Jolt giving Roadbuster a dressing-down.

"You're not in shape to be cutting your ration any further. In fact, I will need to run further tests to ensure that there's not something wrong with your energon system. You shouldn't be this far down. You just shouldn't."

Ratchet took one look at Roadbuster, who was hanging his head and making very good optic contact with the floor, and said, "No, Jolt, that's all right. I know where it's going." He glared at Roadbuster. "Steeljaw always gets part of your ration, doesn't he."

Steeljaw thumped his tail assembly on the floor at the mention of his name, and looked up to "grin" at Ratchet.

Roadbuster bristled. "Well, otherwise, he's always hungry!"

"Yes. And his programming limitations mean that he can't understand why he's hungry. All right. I'll increase his rations a bit … how much are you giving him now?"

Roadbuster resumed his study of the floor, and mumbled a fraction.

Ratchet reached for a wrench. "No wonder Jolt thought you were sick! Primus, mech, it's a wonder you're walking around!"

The other Wreckers raised a confused hubbub, mostly consisting of the glyphs for "Then Steelie can have some of mine!"

"No," Rodi said, entering the room. "That's not necessary. Ratchet said he'd fix it, so we'll let him do that. Prime asked me to resolve this for you." He sent the two sept leaders the memory file, and there it was all its glory: "It'll be good training for you, Hot Rod."

Two heads snapped toward Ratchet. "What's the matter with Prime?" Bulkhead and Roadbuster said in unison.

But the medic shook his head. "Can't tell you that," he said. "He's been trying too hard to help others, as usual, that's all."

Rodi said, with none of his usual diffidence in the presence of the other Wreckers, "Since Ratchet's here—do you have time to talk with us?"

"If talking keeps people from doing stupid things, all the time you need."

"All right. We know that it's possible to subsist on gasoline for a short period - " he raised a servo as Ratchet opened his mandible – "no, hear me out. If we take one-third of our ration as gasoline, how long can we do that before we'll have to stop and use ethanol to clear our systems?"

Ratchet pinged Jolt for the metabolic work he had just done, and said, "The last week of February, depending on the bot. Steelie shouldn't do it at all."

"And that's using a full dose of ethanol."

"Yes, and suffering all the inconvenience of it. Again, for a few of you."

The few, the proud, the Wreckers. The ones who'd had to use ethanol shuddered in recollection.

"And if we used one-quarter gasoline?"

"The middle of March."

"But all we need to accumulate to hold The Contest is two full days' ration of energon for the contestants, one to be taken the day before, one to be taken the day of. So it would take the two combatants until March tenth, to accumulate that much. Would they need to use ethanol in that case?"

Ratchet looked off into space and thought, and in fact ran a computer model of the sept leaders' energon systems, to get his answer. "Not the full three-rotation course. They would have to add it to each tank of energon-gasoline mix, that's all."

Rodi smiled. "But if there are five of us contributing?"

Wheeljack said, "Six, Rodi. I may not be able to fight as well as the rest of you but I'm a Wrecker too."

Ratchet nodded to him. "All right. With all of you contributing, it would take until March 4th to accumulate the needed supplies. When we take into account that you two" – he nodded at Roadbuster and Bulkhead—"are excused from contributing after the second day, and that we accumulate a little more in case an unexpected injury occurs, that will push it to March 14th. That's a short enough exposure to gasoline that I'd want to check you over when The Contest was done, but it's pretty likely none of you would require an ethanol purge."

"Alright," said Topspin, "let's do it."

But Roadbuster shook his head. "Requires a ballot."

"No it don't. Not if we all vote right here and now. All in favor?"

It was very likely that seismographs as far away as Oregon's Mt. St. Helens picked up the resounding "Aye!"

A few moments later, the medbay was no longer filled with Wreckers. Wheeljack gave Ratchet a pat on the armstrut in farewell, and silence suddenly descended.

Jolt prosaically began to clean up and restock. "That was interesting," he said to Ratchet. "I've never seen Wrecker coding's direct effects before."

"I have, a time or two," the elder medic replied. "Before the empire fell, sometimes several parties of mechs from the same clan worked away from each other, for maybe as long as a couple of vorn. The senior member of each party would become a sept leader, usually without realizing that that's what was happening. Then when the septs reunited, they'd have several rounds of The Contest to determine who would lead the entire clan. Nobot has ever died in a Contest—the coding's actually pretty rigid about forbidding that, and The Contest is supposed to be nothing more than a display of strength and skill. But you know, they're Wreckers. They'll pound on each other all joor and think it's a good time. When they schedule The Contest, I'll want every healer we have on duty that joor. That way we can get those two back on their feet in a reasonable amount of time." Ratchet smiled at Jolt. "Good work on doing the metabolic write-up, by the way. That was extremely helpful."

"Thanks! It was kinda fun."

"See you in a bit, then. I've got to get back to the Prime."

When he walked into the area where the Prime lay, one arm fastened to a small machine which was pumping tiny amounts of nutrient-rich energon into his lines, his patient said, "How much longer will this take?"

Ratchet was tempted to say, "About a joor" but instead replied, "Not much longer now. If you're willing to drink it it'll go faster."

"Let's do that, then. I have a meeting with Lennox very shortly."

Ratchet smiled, and disconnected the line. He presented the balance of the fluid to Optimus in a cup, and Optimus chugged it.

Then grimaced. "Ergh. You could have told me it would taste this bad."

"What, and deprive myself of the fun of watching you make that face? Optimus, I need to give you a good talking-to. You knew how close we are to starvation with the short rations, and you still chose to endanger yourself. When your state was brought to my attention, you were about three days from redlining, and you hadn't been combat-capable for a good quarter-orn before that."

"A full quarter-orn. That _is_ culpable."

"Yes. Fortunately no one needs to know that except for you and me."

The Prime heaved a sigh, and started to slide to the floor, but Ratchet raised a servo. "Not so fast. Call Lennox if you have to: I need to make some things clear to you."

Misgiving writ large across his faceplates, the Prime did that little thing.

Ratchet crossed his arms in front of himself, and leaned against the wall. "First of all, here is the file that calculates your own energon needs. You see how little leeway that gives us."

Optimus did, and nodded.

"Second, I can't babysit you every moment of every joor. But if you make it necessary, I will require you to drink your ration in front of me."

Optimus said, "I won't make it necessary."

"Good. Thank you.—Third, if you see a temporary need for more energon in another, I would like you to let me know. When I did the calculations for the shortened rations, I deliberately figured in a holdback. It's not much, two days' full ration for a single bot; I use it to give any injured bot, or anyone who requires extensive repair, a little extra to recover on. Also when the sparklings have a growth surge, as Stormy did a few orn ago, I will be able to temporarily increase that sparkling's rations." He paused for a moment. "But if I happened to have more than two adults in for surgery the same day, or two of the sparklings in a growth surge at the same time, it wouldn't be enough. And its existence is presently known only to the medical staff, to Lennox and Graham, to Prowl, and now to you. Let's keep it that way. If you hear from another bot that I'm shorting myself for my patients, that's what I've let be known."

Ratchet was familiar enough with empties to know that hungry bots would take desperate actions to avoid reaching that state. While no one was in any danger, survival subroutines triggered by empty tanks might have a different opinion. It was better all around if fewer mecha knew where an extra energon cube was to be located.

Optimus Prime released an ex-vent and thought about his reply for a few astroklicks. "Ratchet, I have not questioned you about the problem that you recently corrected, and I do not want to do so now, but I have no choice. I need to know if you have made any other unilateral decisions which affect my ability to command, and kept this from me. Understand, I am not blaming you. You were not culpable for the results of a glitch. But I do need to know about any other such situations that might exist, and I need to know now. Surely you can see I would not have made the rather desperate decision to short my own rations had I known that we had an alternative available."

Ratchet rocked back on his peds, realizing that he had committed mutiny. Shaken, he ran an audit of every command-level decision that he had made since they left Cybertron. Fortunately, it was a short list—spending most of that time hurtling through space in comet form had precluded a lot of scheming, and since their arrival, he had not been in a position to make other than medical decisions. And, to his and everybot else's great good fortune, there had already been protocols in place to guide his decisions, in most cases. "It looks like my...mutinies...were confined to the energon shortage, and Diarwen. My medical decisions in individual cases were constrained by ethical protocols which have been in place for many vorn, so they preceded the glitch and overrode it. Thank Primus."

Optimus smiled at him, and reached out to put a servo on his arm. "Old friend, your 'mutinies,' as you call them, were ultimately harmless. We will help you fix this, and put the entire situation behind us."

Ratchet blinked back cooling fluid. "Optimus, I am so sorry. At the time, it seemed perfectly clear that I was protecting you. But now, in retrospect..."

"There is no need to apologize. What happened to you could have happened to anyone. Without a healer who has specialized in programming issues, I am sure that we will have to deal with this sort of thing again."

"Jazz is capable of doing an audit on another mech's programming. It would be wise of us to ask him either to take the medical training to become qualified to do it outside an interrogation, or to train someone else who will have to qualify."

"Speak to him about it. We need to have someone with these skills sooner rather than later. Perceptor will also need to have the audit run soon. And what about Jolt, and Moonracer?"

"Perceptor, yes. They didn't have anybot who could audit on Excellion either. I've taken a different track in teaching Jolt. At the academy, much of our training consisted of limited reprogramming, but I haven't constrained him in that way. He knows and follows the ethical requirements of our profession, but I have not imposed it as coding. I'll have to consult with Percy to find out what Moonracer's situation is, but my best guess is that Percy wouldn't have messed around with her coding either. Some very specialized training was involved, and Percy doesn't have it any more than I do."

"We are never going to be completely free of the caste system, are we?"

Ratchet shook his helm. "The caste system didn't cause this, Prime. Restrictive coding dates from the slave days. After the revolution that freed us from the Quintessons, Prima removed the most egregious slave coding, but some things like the medical coding were left in place because they were too ingrained in our core code to remove completely without affecting our personalities. And our ancestors didn't know any other way to teach new medics than to impose the coding on them. Each new generation since then has chipped away at it and has become a little more free than the generation before, to the point where new medics now can be trained differently. But the heritage of slavery still scars us all in many ways."

"I see. Given that, Ratchet, can you be certain that your glitch will not recur?"

Ratchet shook his helm once more, that odd human gesture they had all adopted. "Optimus, in medicine, there are no certainties. But I completely excised the programming module which was causing me to make decisions without consulting my patient. Understand, that module should have activated only in the case of a bot who was incapable of making his own decisions, and had no cohort to decide for him; without it, I can still make decisions in such a case using other coding. I don't always know what's best, but the glitch made me think I did. Now that it isn't affecting my judgment any more, I've finally figured out that telling somebot what's going on is better than imposing my best guess on them. Because, you know, it _is_ only a guess. And this isn't new. It's my original coding. I've finally gotten it back, thanks to that femme of yours."

"If she heard you call her that, she'd kick both our afts."

"That she would. But she and I are cohort now, and gratitude is a good beginning to the relationship we'll have to forge with one another."

For answer, the Prime slid off the exam table, cuffed him on the shoulder, and went to his meeting with Lennox.

(End Part Seventeen)


	18. Chapter 18

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Eighteen

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Ironhide and Chromia had their extra rations, and they had taken a stroll up into the mountains at the extreme northeast corner of the base to find a place to enjoy them in privacy. After, Ironhide had sprawled on a rock ledge for a short recharge while Chromia curled up beside him. She enjoyed the lingering connection with her sparkmate while she watched a darkening sky fill with stars, blinking into perception one by one as planetary rotation moved their location beyond the reach of the sun's background radiation. The night was crisp and cool, by Cybertronian standards: just a little below optimum operating temperature. Humans might have been shivering, but there were none present.

She was vigilant—there was always the chance that Soundwave's crew might do something to interrupt their rendezvous—but it was a peaceful night. Chromia divided her time among watching Ironhide sleep, scanning the stars and wondering where Cybertron was now, and monitoring the small lives that streamed around them in the dark.

This far away from the humans, she had no need to kill the curious scorpions which came to investigate their heat, sometimes searching their exhaust for signs of something edible: earth's creatures unanimously exhaled carbon dioxide. Well, not true, Chromia corrected herself, diverting one over-curious scorpion from Ironhide's exhaust: plants reversed that respiratory cycle, inhaling the carbon dioxide and exhaling oxygen. And she was too content at the moment to pursue any research on what bathic extremophiles exhaled.

When Ironhide yawned and stretched, his first movement after was to pull her close, put his helm down onto hers, and utter a long, contented, "Mmmmmm..."

She smiled, and returned his embrace. When her chronometer sent her a ping, she said, keeping her voice low, "We need to get back …"

"'Druther stay here with you."

She smiled, and sat up. "You'd miss your workshop."

The fearsome black mech yawned and stretched. "Guess you're right. And Prowl would come hunting us …"

They rose, and held hands on the trip back to the base. When they neared Buzzard Rock, Ironhide came to a dead stop. ::Oh, slag, will you get a load of that!::

Chromia performed the Cybertronian equivalent of squinting into the darkness. ::What? Oh, Primus! Caught in the act!::

Diarwen's and Optimus' fields were so entangled it was not easy to see where one ended and the other began; Chromia's spark began to sing thanks for her foster-son's happiness.

Ironhide grinned in a way Sideswipe had learned to be very wary of over the vorn. ::So, tell me, do you think they're ready for us to raise the roof yet? Or should we go around and pretend we didn't see anything? Maybe back up and make some noise on the way in?::

::I think they're ready to be caught, or they'd be more careful,:: Chromia smiled.

Ironhide drew back one ped, and booted a rock toward the couple. It hit Optimus' ward, and a bright sizzle of energy lit the darkness to both Sidhe eyes and Cybertronian optics.

Optimus' optics blazed as he pulled his shield from subspace, turning so that Diarwen was fully protected behind it, and the instant she had a good grip on his left arm, he stood: in the next moment he had transformed his ion cannon.

Ironhide held up empty servos: "It's just me and Chromia," he said, in English, then fell into laughter so consuming he fell on his aft. Chromia kept her footing, holding up one servo while she giggled into the other one.

Diarwen yanked her BDUs up and her tank top down while she hid behind the shield.

It had been many, many, _many_ years since the last time she had been caught by her lover's parents, and she could still feel her cheeks burn as they had all those millennia ago.

Ironhide controlled his laughter, at least a little, and rose to his knees, saying, "'Scuse us, we're just passin'―hee―through."

Optimus growled, but this did not keep Chromia at bay. She pulled her fosterling into an embrace, whispered, "I'm happy for you both" in a direction to be heard by Diarwen as well as Optimus, and sent glyphs of radiant joy to her mate and her son.

And a little bit of exuberant glee to her son as well, just to see his cheekplates heat up.

Ironhide gave him a clap on the shoulder, and said in comradely fashion to Diarwen, "We could get that new cohort sigil designed if it ever stood still long enough, you know," by way of welcome to Ironhide-Lennox.

Diarwen nodded a bow, which did nothing to cool her cheeks. "Aye. Sunstreaker and I are supposed to talk about that soon. We think we know how to incorporate the English names."

"Good!" He grinned. By tomorrow morning, Sunstreaker would know he would also need to work in a Sidhe name.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Diarwen unrolled her mat on the upper corner of Optimus' berth. "What now, _acushla_, since the cat is out of the bag?"

As if to answer her question, outside his window, there was a racket of alt-form horns and servos beaten on armor plating, along with a raucous chorus of whooping and hollering.

The Sidhe hid her face behind her hands. "Oh, is that what I think it is...?"

Optimus replied, "If you think it is a chivaree, then you would be right."

She jumped down from the berth and quickly exchanged her chemise for something suitable to wear outside.

Meanwhile, a short distance away, Ironhide loaded up an illumination round and fired it into the air. It went off with a thunderous roar and lit up the hangars like high noon.

Down the street, Lennox' feet hit the floor before he was fully awake. "What the fuck! Are we under attack?"

"I don't know, Will, I think it came from the hangars! What's that light?" Sarah reached for her robe and ran next door to check on her daughters—and found Annabelle standing on the back of a chair to look out the window. Amaranth yanked her down from there and yelled, "Don't do that, something could come through the window and hit you!"

Sarah got both girls dressed and left Amaranth to help Annabelle with her sneakers while she ran back in the bedroom to get her own clothes on.

Will looked out the window as well, not standing right in front of it the way Annabelle had. "Looks like a starshell, on steroids. Must be a bot round. I'm gonna find out what the hell's going on." He reached for his phone, dialed the OD desk, and yelled, "Report!"

Graham answered in a harried tone, "It's the bots, they've gone mental, sir! There is a large crowd of them in the yard between Admin and Building C making hell's own racket, and Ironhide just fired a shell into the air. Jolt assures me that it's only an illumination round. He says that it's one of their celebrations. When I asked him what they're celebrating, he replied in Cybertronian, and I didn't quite catch it, sir. He's out there now, sir, screeching along with the rest of them."

Lennox let out a string of profanities, making allowance for the presence of two small girls in the apartment only by reducing the volume.

Barricade and Flareup came outside with the Trine. Flareup commed Arcee, ::What's the riot about?::

::Optimus and Diarwen got themselves caught up by Buzzard Rock a little while ago!::

::And you didn't _tell_ me?::

Arcee giggled. ::Chromia just told me and Sides a minute ago.::

Barricade told the mechlings, "Go up there by that ventilation cap and pound on the roof and start yelling 'Come out' as loud as you can!" He gave Skysong a boost so that she could join her brothers in the mischief.

Diarwen looked up as dust started to fall from the ceiling. She closed her eyes to get a sense of the fields—she had been the quarry of a few mobs with torches and pitchforks in her day.

This was not that. These auras blazed with humor, rowdy fun—and love, wave after wave of love.

Her eyes brimmed with tears and spilled over as she was surrounded by family for the first time in hundreds of years.

Optimus asked her, "Why are you crying? I know that they are loud, but they mean no harm, I promise you."

"I know that, I know that, _acushla_. Read the auras—I have no words. These are happy tears."

Optimus smiled gently down to her, and said, "We had best go out—it will only get louder until we do."

"What will happen?"

"Music, and dancing. No doubt we will be swept along to Excellion. I am sorry but I doubt that you will get any sleep tonight."

"I would have it no other way," Diarwen assured him.

They exited the back door into a cheering crowd worthy of a hometown football victory.

Optimus commed Ironhide, ::Did you explain to Colonel Lennox what is happening here? And if so, what explanation did you give him?::

::Ah...not exactly, Optimus. I forgot he wouldn't know.::

While that spoke volumes about his cohort's acceptance of its non-Cybertronian members, they both winced in anticipation of Will's reaction. ::You had better call him. But simply explain it as a traditional celebration. It would be better if the humans are not officially aware of the reason for it, and certainly no one off the base should be told. We do not need to invite a scandal.::

Ironhide sent a glyph of confusion. Optimus sent to his foster-father, ::Until very recently, the humans actually had what were called anti-miscegenation laws which restricted marriage among their own kind based on skin pigmentation, so I can only imagine what their reaction might be to Diarwen's and my relationship. I will discuss with Diarwen what is customarily expected of me where her brother-by-choice is concerned, and if anyone must speak to Will, I will do so myself, in private.::

There was dead air for a klick, then Ironhide replied, ::Understood,:: using glyphs that made it clear he understood the order and not the situation which prompted it. The concept of racism was one which confounded most Cybertronians. They sported an amazing variety of sizes and basic frame types, and an even greater diversity of forms based on an individual bot's function, and his or her preferred activities outside that function.

While Cybertronian society was prey to definite prejudices and caste inequities, none of them had anything to do with physical form. There was indeed a great deal of friction between Seekers and grounders, but that was based on millennia of cultural misunderstandings on both sides, not strictly on frametype. Seekers who assimilated into Iaconian culture were accepted there. Likewise, grounders who took the time to learn the complexities of the Vosian way of life could find their place within it, though few did. It was not easy for Optimus' people to comprehend the perceived differences which caused one human to prejudge another human - particularly not when such prejudice was based on what the Cybertronians considered insignificant cosmetic differences. Paint was readily available; a Cybertronian might be seen in hundreds of colors over a lifetime.

But it _was_ easy for them to understand that people who chose to be bigoted for such small reasons would probably glitch when confronted with a relationship between a Cybertronian and an organic. Optimus did not wish to be the first to publicly push that boundary. He doubted that Diarwen would, either. And he did not want to put Will Lennox in the position of having to defend them.

The Cybertronians had numerous festivals and celebrations, with little differentiation between them as far as the humans could see, and since they happened only once a vorn, it would be rare for a human to see any of them more than once (while of an age to remember both). If they explained it as a cohort celebration, that would be true as far as it went, and the humans would be unlikely to inquire further.

Once the party was confined within Excellion's flight deck, the excitement was over as far as the humans were concerned. Will Lennox and Alistair Graham respectively yawned and went back to bed, and returned to duty.

On Excellion's flight deck, Soundwave's name was roundly cursed that they had no highgrade. For his part, Optimus thought that was probably just as well. A chivaree was wild enough.

This was strictly a working caste event. Mirage had attended a few over the vorn since the Fall, but had always felt out of place. In his caste, the addition of a new mech or femme to the cohort was the result of a long process of business dealings and contract negotiations, as well as the usual process of getting to know one another and assuring that the prospective new member would be compatible with the rest. But cohort membership among the towers mecha, other than one's sparkling cohort, was arranged for numerous reasons, love having to do with few of them. A chivaree, a joy-filled celebration of a new relationship, was beyond the ken of most Towers mecha.

Mirage thought, for the first time in his life, that those Tower mecha might have been missing out on something uniquely worth celebrating. He craned his neck struts until he caught sight of his target … over with Wheeljack, Moonracer, Jolt, and Perceptor.

Jazz had requested that the spy keep an optic on Ratchet. This happy chaos might be enough to trigger his glitch, if anything was ever going to. Should that happen, someone had to be able to restrain the medic until they could figure out how to help him, and Mirage was best suited for that redoubtable task.

Fortunately, though, Ratchet was in full control of himself. He was subdued around the new couple, but he no longer seemed to expect Diarwen to go on a killing spree. Instead he wished her and Optimus happiness and good fortune, stayed long enough to be polite, then went off somewhere, still accompanied by Perceptor and Wheeljack, leaving Jolt and Moonracer to enjoy the party.

Mirage asked, ::What do you think, Jazz?::

::Ah think it's clear. Stay near Prime while me and Flare play a set or two, then Ah'll switch off with ya. Ironhide ain't goin' anywhere, and no one's getting' past him while he's cold sober.::

::You think there may be a spy among the civilians.::

::The evacuation of Tyger Pax woulda been a perfect time for Ol' Buckethead to slip a deep cover agent in with the refugees. We'd never know. And even if there is, Ah expect after bein' part of Excellion's crew for several vorn, they probably decided they'd rather stay neutral than ever go back to the Cons once they found out Megsy got deactivated. But still, it ain't a chance Ah'm willin' to take yet.::

Mirage nodded, and let his gaze rove the crowded dance floor. Everyone there was celebrating Lennox-Ironhide's happy occasion—genuinely, as best the former Towers mech could tell. And it took one to know one: Mirage had a good optic for mecha who were pretending to be something that they were not. Still. Like Jazz, he was unwilling to take Optimus' safety on faith quite yet.

Maybe in ten or twenty vorn, the mecha of Operations would be willing to admit the war was over and no one had a side anymore...except them. But, war or not, Mirage thought, Operations had always been the Primes' left servo. There would always be a need for mecha with their skill set.

The music and dancing went on long after dawn lightened the sky. Perhaps because Ironhide and the scouts were so vigilant, or perhaps because there was no one in attendance who had any nefarious purposes, the night passed with nothing but the usual high-spirited pranks and hijinks.

A particularly well-timed lull in the music led to the night's most memorable entertainment. Just as Jazz' sound system stopped shaking the walls, Stormracer piped up with the question everyone else was wondering about, but didn't dare ask: "Are you an' Diarwen doin' it?"

Barricade yelled, "STORMY!"

Optimus didn't shutter an optic. "Not at the moment."

Barricade snatched the sparkling up and took him off for a discussion about inappropriate questions, sending a mortified glyph of apology to Optimus.

Optimus was trying too hard not to laugh at the little one to do more than pass it off as nothing, sending glyphs of reassurance and amusement to Barricade. Diarwen had gone red as a beet, and literally bit her tongue to keep from going into hysterics, as much at Optimus' deadpan reply as at the little mech's innocent impudence. As soon as Skimmer's back was turned, she wiped her eyes and stifled laughter with a hand over her mouth.

Both sets of twins, the Wreckers, and the crowd of young mecha which included Hot Rod, Bumblebee, Jolt, Moonracer, Bluestreak, and the two young gestalt teams were not so restrained, and Excellion's walls shook with roars of laughter.

The departure of the littles started an unending litany of risque remarks. Even Chromia got in on the act, presenting them with a pair of data pads in the appropriate sizes—each containing a collection of sex manuals pertaining to the proper species. And both of them wanted to crawl under the deck plates. But nothing could have more clearly demonstrated their family's acceptance of their relationship.

The Cybertronian side of the family, anyhow.

Optimus wondered, as he subspaced the datapad, how Lennox was going to react.

And Betony, who was also a witch. He did not want to think about what her revenge would be if she believed he had somehow harmed her sister.

And, Primus help him, Sarah. His life was going to be the Pit if she disapproved.

Then he listened to Diarwen weaving a penny whistle descant around a melody and beat created by Flareup and Jazz, and he realized a life with her would be worth everything that the three of them could throw at him, and more.

(End Part Eighteen)


	19. Chapter 19

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Seventeen

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mexico)

Bee raised the volume of his radio, and said softly, "Fig. Seymour. They're here. Nearby."

The quiet pronouncement was enough to yank both Figueroa and Simmons out of a sound nap. Leaving the paved roads out of the little town, Bee had kept his speed very low, and his sensors at maximum extension and the highest sensitivity. He had therefore scanned a lot further than he had gotten.

"Where, Bee?" Simmons said, as Figueroa got water out for both of them.

Bee gave them heading and distance, and for good measure displayed the map of the area he had downloaded earlier and placed them within it. "Called… Santos…with… information…before I…woke...you."

"What else is there?"

"Many humans." The scout paused, and in the singing heat, Figueroa realized that he heard the thwap-thwap of a helicopter not so very far off. "Assume...all...have...multiple...guns...knives."

Bee picked up speed, though the road was pretty minimal. The jungle canopy shielded them from line-of-sight from above, but they couldn't assume the helo crew was relying on unaugmented human senses.

Prosaically, the agents consumed the last of the cart food. They didn't know when they'd get to eat again. Simmons, wiping his hands on the paper napkins Mrs. Toquega had grudgingly parted with, asked, "What's the layout?"

Bee projected a map on the inside of his own windshield. "Old fort... hollow square...ruins...inside. Backs onto...a cliff. I can...climb it. Not you...two."

They studied his display. "I think, Fig, you could get in through a window or just over the wall from the west, but I don't know how to get in there myself." Simmons slapped his leg brace.

"Better idea?" Bee asked. "I climb...cliff, lift...you both...in. You...create disturbance, I get...symbionts...transform...you...get in...we get out...Santos...gets...baddies."

"I'll call him now," Fig said. "It took what, 40 minutes to get here?"

"Forty-two."

"Got any idea how many are in there, Bee?" Fig said.

A long pause ensued. Bee finally said, "How many...NEST...at...Mission City...do...AM...PT?"

"Sixty some-odd. I don't remember exactly."

"Feels like...twice that."

Simmons said, "Get on the horn to Santos, then, if you would, Bee. Tell him to prepare for about 150 bad guys."

The agents sent brief emails to their respective beloveds: Going in. Love you. Later.

Bee left the agents about 250 yards from the walls, and pulled away in the eerie near-silence only a Cybertronian scout in alt-mode could achieve. Ten minutes later, he sent the two a text message: "I'm...at the bottom...of the cliff. Twenty minutes...to go."

He transformed to root-mode and stared up at his destination, ten-foot walls built of stone fifty feet above him. In the Yucatan, "stone" generally meant "limestone," and both his target and the way to it were made of the soft stuff.

He stepped up to the wall, and drove a ped into the stone. Stood on it, drove the opposite servo in as high as he could reach. Next ped in, next handhold. Lather, rinse, repeat.

By the time he reached the top, he was grateful for the fact that the agents had topped his tank, leaving enough volume free only for the ethanol he needed to keep his lines clean. Climbing was harder work than he had thought.

He was also grateful for the jungle canopy over the small ledge below the walls. He wouldn't bet the farm, as he had heard Fig say, that the cartel couldn't see him, though. He transformed, and sent a pulse to the agents' phones, then began scanning the place in greater detail than he could at a distance.

Cautiously, the two men worked their way to Bee. Their careers, varied as they were, had taught both some form of woodsmanship; they knew how to go quietly. There was no need here for perfect silence, though, which lent them added speed.

Still, by the time they reached Bee, his sensors had made a good map of the layout, which he projected onto the wall beside them.

"They're...being held...here," he said, and a green dot showed on the wall among the yellow lines of the fort itself. "We're...here." A red dot not far from the green one, which was in the center of the square, appeared. "They're...chained to... a stone wall...not...in a cell."

"If they aren't in a cell," Simmons said, "I think that leaves Fig and me to create a disturbance while you cut them loose and get us all out of there, Bee."

"Sounds...good."

"Given that no plan survives first contact with the enemy…Fig, how do you feel about mortally wounding some generators? I can hear them. They're in this direction." He tapped the wall just outside Bee's projection.

Figueroa grinned. "I _like_ generators," he said. "You hit 'em just right, they go ka-blooey. I can generally figure out where to fire, too, if you can give me a couple of minutes. I'll need an AK; these guys got any?"

"Fifty...one. Forty-three...in a pile...and eight...with the guards...walking the...battlements."

"Can you put me up into one of the corner thingies? The little rooms with the lookout windows?"

"Yes."

Bee lifted Fig in through the window that faced the cliff, choosing a moment to do so when the two nearest guards had their backs turned. Like the others, they were intently watching the goings-on within the compound.

There was nothing in the little room that could be used for cover. Fig cursed, and placed himself beside the door. He made a soft noise repeatedly, just a little hum, a noise that should not be there.

When a guard stuck his head around the corner, Fig sucker-punched him straight on the chin and pulled him inside, making it seem as if he'd simply stepped in. Then he dropped the guy like a log. The AK-47 the footsoldier carried did not even hit the stones; Fig used his knife to cut the guard's web belt, loaded with lots of nice juicy ammo, and returned to the window, where Bee lifted him down.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Jose Ramirez was not having a good day. He had looked forward to his guard duty this day; what he had to guard could easily bear a lot of inspection, and some thoughtful and covetous fingering as well.

It was more than his life was worth to steal anything from this treasure trove, to Jose's intense regret.

Jose had no way to know that his mother's lovely fresh queso, eaten for breakfast, had a good dosage of the listeria bacterium concealed within it.

Jose had spent most of the day worshiping the white porcelain god (plastic variant) known as Porta Potty. He was miserable, and his stomach was empty; why couldn't he stop throwing up?

His first rush to initiate worship had been barely in time. He threw himself to his knees and grasped the god in the approved fashion. This knocked his walkie-talkie out of his hand.

It spiraled up, hit Jose in the head on the way back down, and fell with a splash into the Porta Potty.

What this meant for Fig was that his cautious entry into an outbuilding from which generator-noises came was not merely uneventful, except for some moans from within the nearby white porcelain god-variant, but extremely productive. A shoulder-fired rocket and a bag of its ammo gleamed among the other jumbled weapons.

Fig pounced. The hell with the AK; this thing! (This did not mean he threw the AK in the corner with a sneer. Far from it.)

Five generators sat in a row, going chuff-put: Fig fired a rocket into the middle one and got the hell out.

The wounded generator shuffled off the mortal coil with a fireball sufficiently sized to take the others with it in a good big cloud of gasoline fire. The Porta-Potty was blown over onto its side, to Jose's extreme regret.

Fig had flown like a kite in a high wind by the time more guards converged on the inferno. He met Bee and Simmons by the cliff and said, "Lookit what I found!"

"Awesome!" Bee said.

Simmons laughed. "Change of plan, folks!"

Ten minutes later, Seymour Simmons planted the foot of his braced leg, stepped back with the other foot, lifted the rocket launcher, and blew the hell out of the locked gate at the front of the compound. It hurt, but it was worth it. Oh, so worth it.

Fig rushed the gate from the right and swept the compound with AK fire about the level of the shin.

Bad guys dropped like flies. Most because their legs were suddenly full of holes, and most of them, wounded or not, reaching for their guns as they hit dirt.

Bumblebee entered stage left. Most of the cartel members had never seen a Transformer except on TV. They froze long enough for him to reach the tumbledown villa. He kicked his way into the area holding the two Decepticons.

Bullets began flying. Bumblebee ignored or deflected them with his forearms. One hit him right along a transformation seam, and pain jolted through the young mech; he damped the sensors and kept moving.

Rumble and Buzzsaw had curled around one another to provide the best shelter possible, with both heavily-armored backs presented to the outside world. They were immediately aware of his fields and raised their heads. Their optics huge, they watched Bumblebee yank the chains which held Rumble's pile-drivers facing one another free of the wall. Buzzsaw's bonds he could do nothing about without more time, so he subspaced both mechs. Buzzsaw's loud screech and Rumble's curses cut off abruptly as they disappeared.

Bee ran out the gate. He stepped on a half-dozen technicals and helicopters on his way to Simmons and Fig, waiting in the jungle. One helo pilot, who had been settling into a nice siesta, yanked awake at the noise, scrambled into the machine he'd been dozing against, and fired it up without performing a single pre-flight check. He got airborne and away just as Bee's foot boomed into the other helo on the pad.

The helo touched back down just as a mob of footsoldiers streamed into the parking lot, followed by a few laggards limping along by leaning into one another. Curses filled the air at the sight of their ruined technicals and the other helo crumpled into uselessness. They raced to the table on which Jose had admired their weapons, and many of them armed themselves with guns not their own.

Seven of the technicals were still fit to drive, and the able-bodied piled into them, leaving their wounded behind.

Jose, who got covered in substances he wished he weren't covered in when Fig's blast overturned the Porta Potty, was suddenly flung from it when Bee picked it up. That saved Jose's life, as the 105-kilo object impacted a windshield post of the leading technical three. The impact spooked the driver enough to yank hard on the wheel, which spun the vehicle straight into a sizable palm tree. The tree dropped several coconuts onto the top of the technical, then creaked and leaned like a dowager duchess who has had too many Bloody Marys before falling noisily into the jungle.

Every parrot in the State of Yucatan took screaming to the sky.

By that time the bullets were getting thick; Bee took another hit to his left forearm that meant he wouldn't be able to have anyone sit in the driver's seat. He fetched Rumble and Buzzsaw out of subspace, transformed.

"Passenger seat...back seat...no...driver's seat!" he shouted, using four different clips. He popped his doors for Fig and Simmons, discovered that Rumble and Buzzsaw still had their comms, and sent, ::Get in! We're your only chance! Get in, or I leave you here!::

They scrambled in, Fig giving Buzzsaw a hand, Rumble falling inside just as Bee peeled out.

"Unlock our guns! Unlock our guns! We'll help you!" Rumble screamed, as bullets went pink glang clunk off Bee, and zip whirr zing past him.

Three voices answered him in unison: "No!"

Bee had his map of the area to hand, as it were, and consulted it as they bounded through the jungle, over roads that were not fit for much more than a tank. "Seat...belts! Rumble...Buzzsaw...too!"

A particularly vicious pothole sent Rumble's helm clanking against Bee's roof, and he did as he was told.

Fig shouted, "You touch me with those I put a round through your spark!" to Buzzsaw, who growled but winched in the lethal edges.

Pursuit on the ground sorted itself out into one vehicle capable of great speed, which wasn't standing up well to the hellish roads Bee chose, one a little slower, three more just about keeping up. The others lost ground rapidly enough not be a clear and present danger, though Bee thought he'd keep running until he had word from Santos that they'd been rounded up.

Simmons was keeping an ear out for the thwap-thwap of helo noises.

There weren't any yet because the helo pilot had difficulties. "No!" he shouted. "She takes twenty and not one more! You last two get out!"

"No! Think I'm going to let you fly off with those two once you find them you crazy!" The speaker was one of five men aboard who was a member of the "host" cartel. They pulled their guns. The other footsoldiers pulled theirs.

The helo pilot made sure she was on the pad and turned off the engine. The speaker clouted him one with a gun barrel. "What you do that for! I'm gonna kill you unless you get her up!"

"You go right ahead! Then who fly you, eh? I'll be dead, so I won't have to watch you killing yourself trying to fly her! You choose eight guys and get back here! All of you, get out now, or I throw the key out the window!"

The footsoldier hit him again. The pilot threw the key out the window, unfastened his seat belt, and turned on his mouth. "Now you send one of your guys to find them, and you choose seven more to fly with you! You get a shoulder-fired and come back here! You can't hit nothin' with a hand gun aimed out a helicopter, _burro_!"

When the footsoldier made to hit him with the gun again, the pilot grabbed his wrist and threw him out of the helo, jumping down and stamping on the wrist of the man's gun hand. He took the pistol and fired it once, a bullet through the throat. "You, Carlos! Juan! You go and get two shoulder-fireds! You in the pink camo, you find my keys! Then you come back here! The rest of you, get out of my bird!"

They got. There's _burro_, and then there's _loco_.

There was a fistfight to claim the shoulder-fireds. The guards wouldn't give theirs up. Juan and Carlos eventually brought two of them back, chose two men from each of the other cartels present, and the eight of them boarded the bird. The pilot fired her up, with proper pre-flight checks this time, and they lifted off. Bee had a ten-minute head start.

January is the dry season in the Yucatan. That means only an inch of rain a day instead of four inches, but it also meant that Bee couldn't be tracked by the dust he raised. He had to stay on jungle roads for as long as possible; getting out onto a two-lane highway, paved or dirt, meant that he'd be visible from overhead. He planned out his route, consulting with the onboard map.

The lead technical, driven without regard for its continued survival, was slowly gaining on them. The footsoldiers inside had realized the folly of shooting at Bee, and were keeping their ammo for when they ran him out of gas.

Bee might be immune to their bullets. His passengers weren't…though they wouldn't be killed out of hand, but brought back wounded to the boss. Who had a taste for torture.

And if the footsoldiers could get that yellow one under control, too, they'd come back with three of the machines instead of two. The boss would reward them. Visions of whores and liquor filled their heads.

Bee, meanwhile, was scanning his map, looking for a particular road configuration. He found it next to a thirty-foot cliff, which wasn't ideal. But he had no time to search for something else.

He put on a burst of speed to the intersection he sought, and shouted, "Hold on!" to his passengers.

He made a swift left turn, and then another, squealing to a halt in a J-turn which left him facing the direction he had come. The technical roared by them, and Bee lunged forward to tap its rear quarter precisely with his front fender.

The technical spun out of control, just as the one impacted by the Porta Potty had done: that had been Bee's plan. At its higher speed, on this rougher road, the result was inevitable: it rolled, multiple times, crashed through the slim belt of jungle lining the cliff, and came to rest at the bottom.

There were no survivors, though Bee learned that only later. He sent the coordinates of the accident to Santos, and sped on.

By that time the scout had returned to his original route. The trailing technicals now had him in sight, and while they could keep up, they couldn't gain on him.

Simmons heard the helo: "Canopy's thinning, Bee! Can you get us back under cover?"

They had him in sight, though; a shoulder-fired rocket sizzled by them to blow nearby trees into lethal splinters. Fig shouted, "I have a better idea! Let me shoot back with _our_ shoulder-fired!"

"I have a better one! I've got targeting mods! Let _me_ shoot!" bellowed Rumble.

Simmons half-turned from the front seat and pointed his gun at Buzzsaw's spark. "Take 'em down," he said. "You point that thing at anyone else _I__'__ll_ shoot."

Rumble snarled at the human but made no comment. Bee came to a swift, plunging stop, well under thick canopy. Behind them, the nutcases in the helo ruined more trees, and the three trailing technicals came closer.

Rumble got out and sighted, using infrared to locate the chopper, then fired. The first shot missed, but the pilot's panicky evasion maneuver almost sent one man toppling out of the helo. Another tree erupted into ruin, nearer them this time.

The con raced back to Bee and said, "How do you reload this thing!" Bullets were zinging around him–not close, as aiming a hand gun from a helo is at least as problematic as aiming a shoulder-fired rocket. Fig, the only one of them trained to do so, got it ready to go again and presented it to Rumble muzzle-first.

Rumble grabbed it, spun, ran to get a clear sight, and fired again at the helo: it disappeared in a cloud of flame and a rain of debris. He ran for Bee, who once he was in burned rubber, which is not easy to do on a dirt road. Bullets from the three trailing technicals began to bounce off Bee again, sping clang plunk. He sent coordinates of the downing to Santos.

Rumble passed the weapon back to Fig, who said, "Thank you!" and reloaded it.

Rumble didn't bother to reply.

Twenty minutes later, Bee had led his pursuers to the place of their disposal. He told his passengers what he intended. Simmons, his mouth thin, said, "Let's do it," and tightened his seat belt. Bee sent a pulse to Rumble to refasten his own around himself and Buzzsaw, and set off down the rutted narrow road he had chosen.

The road branched off, areas thinned by clear-cutting visible now through a narrow strip of something that wasn't quite jungle any longer beside the road. Bee took the narrower track. Simmons and Fig didn't question him. Bee had been a child warrior for longer than human civilization existed. He knew what he was doing.

Bee slowed, so that the pursuers could find him. They made the turn with squeals of brakes and, from the sound of one impact and thousands of birds taking to the skies to complain about it, their pursuers were mostly successful.

Bee picked up speed again, and hit sixty over a track designed to accommodate logging trucks making a steady 15. The criminals behind them were firing again, but the road was so rough that no bullets even came close. Bee dropped it to forty; he wanted them on his tail.

Not bothering with his own lights, Bee sped on. The pursuers turned their own on, putting them on high in an attempt to blind Bee, who laughed at them, and the pursuers narrowed the gap. The bullets came closer, one or two spanging off Bee.

In the darkness, Rumble said, "Autobot? Where are you taking us?" but got no reply.

Bee kicked up his speed by several notches, leaving the technical behind him. Simmons looked over just in time to see Bee flick his wheel, which sent him into a spin. He controlled this spin by re-engaging his wheels at the precise moment to turn him, and killed his forward momentum.

Two hundred feet to one side, dead ahead on the road he'd been traveling, an old fire ditch nineteen feet wide and four feet deep loomed. The drivers of the two lead technicals, on Bee's bumper as they had been, didn't have time to apply their brakes. They hit the far bank without slowing.

The third driver had time to jam his right foot to the floor and reef his wheel as far over as it would go. This technical rolled, striking the wreckage of the others broadside three-quarters through its first rotation.

Bee sent the coordinates of this newest accident to Santos and got out of there. By the time Santos arrived, there were no survivors.

Fine by Santos. Bee and his friends had literally decimated the cartel around Merida, taking out the top echelon of all four of the biggest groups in the area. That they died was something Santos could find any number of ways to explain that didn't involve Cybertronians at all.

Later it would be known that the men left behind at the villa had been in possession of enough pot, collectively, to get themselves into custody; the quantity of pot was such that they would stay there for a while. The only exception might be that poor bastard Jose Ramirez, who had had to be hosed down with cold water before the ambulance crew would take him back to Merida. His physical condition prevented him from knowin' nothin' about nothin', which was going to reduce his charges by quite a bit.

Couldn't get them all. And if he, Santos, knew anything about it, and he did, Jose was no more than a bit player at best. Probably he was a footsoldier only because no other work was available.

It would not, Santos knew, be too long before the squalid tide flowed back in: nature and criminal enterprise both abhor a vacuum. Still, for the moment, he was happy, if not content.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

The humans had traveled north along the Mexican Highway 180, which followed the graceful arch of the coast of the Gulf, for ten hours before calling it a day. Now they were sleeping in a motel, as Bee and the two (former) cons made some energon in the sun … while parked in an area concealed from prying human eyes.

Bee said to them, ::I have some news for you.::

Rumble, his back propped against a stone wall, sneered. ::Probably not anything we want to know.::

::You might be surprised,:: Bee sent. ::Soundwave's frame is dead, but he's still around. He's a ghost.::

They blinked at him, and then at each other. Buzzsaw was the first to send, ::You're slaggin' me.::

::Nope. You knew Jazz was dead, but he was a ghost too and came back. Him and Prowl, both.::

Both cons sent a strong pulse of…dread, fear, awe, confoundment. If Optimus walked daily with Primus, Buzzsaw and Rumble were content to be unbelievers. Had been, anyway; now, they were suddenly aware that…life was different.

Then Rumble dealt with the obvious. ::That walkin' heap of slag! He didn't come for us!::

::Probably he thought you were dead.::

Twin sets of red headlamps turned scorn on the young scout, who grinned at them. ::_That__'__s __no __excuse_!:: both symbiotes sent, simultaneously.

::You got us out of that just so you can drag us back to your base and kill us!:: Rumble sent.

::No. We got you out of that so that you can come and join us. Barricade has.:: Bee passed them two flasks of ethanol, and transformed to alt-mode. The sun was coming up.

::_Barricade_? You gotta be slaggin' me!::

::He brought the Command Trine's sparklings with him.::

The two bondmates looked at one another. Then Rumble shrugged.

They were going back by a different route than they had come. It's a twenty-seven hour drive between Merida and Corpus Christi, Texas, where an Air Force C-130, along with Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, would be waiting to take them all back to Mission City. Ratchet, sent the two prisoners' data, made a case that getting their lines cleaned was a medical necessity rapidly approaching crisis point.

::So the humans are—sleeping, you called it?::

::That's what they call recharge.::

::What are we supposed to do?::

::You're going to choose between behaving yourselves while I recharge for about two joor, or causing trouble, setting off my motion sensors, and getting your afts kicked.::

::And once we get there…::

::You'll be interviewed and debriefed. After that, Prime, and our energon supplies, will determine your restrictions. Soundwave's gang raided us and took most of our energon cubes, so we're on strict rationing. That includes you slaggers,:: Bee replied smugly.

Rumble looked down at his piledrivers, still shackled so that their power was applied directly to one another. Then he glanced at his bondmate, who had been freed of the C-clamps only to have his wings bolted to his frame at the first hinge, and his entire frame encircled by two heavy iron bands, one just below each of the other two hinges in his wings. That had happened just before they were put on display.

The metal used was heavy enough that Bee wasn't able to free them, or so he said, Rumble thought darkly. ::It ain't like we've got a choice,:: he sent.

Over the bond, he felt Buzzsaw's awe and dread. But a kind of courageous resignation, too, something he had long been aware of in the other symbiote.

::You have three,:: Bee sent.

::Slag. What?::

Rumble, not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, felt Buzzsaw's amusement through the bond.

Bee sent, ::Walk away right now as you are. That's one choice.::

::We'd offline of fuel deprivation!::

::Eventually. Or poison yourselves with gasoline.::

Rumble glared. Neither was a pleasant, or fast, way to die. ::The other two?::

::Come with us, and accept Prime's leadership.::

Rumble sneered.

Bee went on, ::You're also free not to accept him, if you can't do that with a clear conscience. He won't force you. He isn't Megatron.::

::I know that!:: Rumble snapped.

As if Rumble had not spoken, Bee went on, ::If that's what you choose, you'll be locked up. We won't permit you to run off and join Soundwave's crew or threaten us in any other way, but we don't reprogram mechs or box them or any of the sludge that Megs told you 'Cons we did.::

Buzzsaw sent, not through the bond but publicly, as it were, ::I accepted Soundwave's choice to follow Megatron because Optimus Prime wasn't standing up to the Senate. We all saw the things Megatron did, Rumble. And we all understood how critical never letting anyone but Soundwave know how we felt about any of that was. Megatron's offlined permanently, the Senate is no more, and Optimus Prime is the only one left standing. If might makes right, Rumble,:: he sent, because he knew that for Rumble it did, :: Optimus Prime has been proven right. Beyond that, he's the only one of the three who had any vestige of integrity. We all heard Megatron mock him for that time and again.:: Buzzsaw fidgeted within his restraints. ::I don't know what you're going to do, but you're my bondmate. I hope you'll join me in accepting the Prime. If not, buddy, we're still going wherever we go together.::

Rumble stared down at his shackled piledrivers. ::I just wish I had a _choice_.::

Bee could not offer him one, and remained silent. The sun climbed higher in the sky, and the air temperature rose beyond optimal operational ranges. Buzzsaw, who on the ground moved a bit like a buzzard, waddled into the speckled shade available. Rumble went with him, and stuck one foot out into the sun. Buzzsaw hunched a single shoulder out.

That way, they could continue to make energon, and not overheat.

An hour or so later, Bumblebee backed halfway in, leaving his hood out. ::I'd like one of you to take watch,:: he sent. ::I need some recharge.::

Buzzsaw exvented. ::I'll do it. I can't recharge like this anyway.::

::Thanks,:: Bee sent.

The hot afternoon settled in over them, bringing with it a brand of peace.

(End Scene Nineteen)


	20. Chapter 20

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Twenty

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mission City Base)

Optimus chose a place to sit where he provided a windbreak. The breeze whistling around Buzzard Rock was too cold for the organics' comfort, though it was well within his operating range.

Ratchet transformed, then his remote climbed out the back. Optimus sent a few admiring glyphs, which Ratchet acknowledged smugly. Rearranging his transformation sequence so that his remote was located in his patient area when he transformed to alt mode had not been easy, but having the remote easily available when he had a patient back there had been worth all the work.

Diarwen returned from her sword dance and took the seat Optimus offered on his ped.

Chip Chase hesitated, and Mikaela waited with him, a neutral expression on her face. The two of them had reached a status quo after their argument at the holiday party. Chip was engineer enough to realize that uncontrolled energy was more likely to be destructive than constructive, and mature adult enough to realize that neither he nor Mikaela could stop being what they were. They began again to attend the circle, learning pure energy work. Several conversations with the base chaplain had helped Chip separate the actual tenets of his faith from the bigotry against people of other religions ingrained in him since childhood, but still, he left before discussions of Pagan religion started, and Mikaela always left when he did. Since that argument, she had never discussed her own beliefs with him. When he wanted to go to church, she went with him.

But something that Reverend Jeffries, the chaplain, said last week had made Chip think. They had been discussing what it meant to be a good person, and what you actually had to do to go to Heaven. One way was to follow the Jewish law, in all its complexity. But they had gone on to talk about the Pharisee who had asked Christ which was the greatest commandment. Jesus told him that the greatest was to love God, and the second, to love your neighbor. If you did those things, the rest of the law would follow.

And then, the chaplain had asked him which was more important, the name someone called God, or whether they loved God and loved their neighbor.

Chip had been thinking about that ever since. He found a place to park his chair, and Mikaela sat down beside him.

Jazz and Prowl took their places, as did Obsidian and Sapphire, the human teenagers, and finally Parker, who had been practicing her control of Air, far enough away from the others that she wouldn't blow sand on anyone. (Parker's Element was Earth, but it was Sidhe custom was to practice hardest with the Element one's affiliation toward was weakest, because it was the most difficult to master.)

Hot Rod was on duty, and due to his planned lesson with Optimus that evening, had not been able to squeeze out the time to attend. Optimus would tell him what they had covered, and if the young mech had any questions he could email Diarwen, or ask her at the next Circle.

The Sidhe wrapped her shawl around herself and asked, "Has everyone had the chance to read the material on Imbolc?"

Everyone had, except Chip. Diarwen knew Mikaela kept up with the reading assignments, but she didn't know if her roommate wanted Chip to know that so she said nothing about it. "To summarize, we are coming up on the next cross-quarter day on the Wheel of the Year, Imbolc. Christians call it Candlemas, or St. Brigit's Day. The name comes from the old Irish, _Oimelc_, Ewe's milk, for it is now that the new lambs are born. In my tradition, Imbolc is the feast of my own patron, the Lady Brigit. The custom was to make all the candles that the household would use through the year in late January, then on Imbolc, the candles would be blessed by the Pagans at the Sabbat celebration and by the Christians at a Mass held for this purpose—the Candle Mass, hence their name for the festival. Candlemas was important in the Christian faith as the Feast of Purification of the Virgin Mary, that time forty days after the birth of Christ when Mary was considered once again ritually pure under Jewish law."

Chip asked, puzzled, "So is it a Christian festival, Jewish, or Pagan?"

"It belongs to all of them. Much of Christian tradition is drawn from its Jewish roots, of course. And then, when Christianity first came to Ireland, people of both faiths lived side by side for hundreds of years, and during much of that time, we were set upon by the Vikings and by the Unseelie Court to such an extent that we scarce had time or energy to fight among ourselves. When the longboats came, no one had time to worry if the sword next to yours was held by a Christian or a Pagan, or for that matter a human or a Fae. We were all Irish in those days! We all borrowed one another's traditions and used them as they fit into our own beliefs."

She watched Chip's eyes change as he understood, and sent a word of thanks to Brigit for the presence of Chaplain Jeffries.

"The other reason candles are associated with Imbolc is that the holiday symbolizes the return of light after the long dark nights of winter. Ireland is very far north compared to the United States, so in winter the days are quite short. We used a lot of candles. We all needed to restock them around this time of year. And, we did not have candle molds then—we made our candles by dipping them. That is a great deal of work, and after the task was done we were all ready for a celebration. Imbolc was a very joyous time, for we could see the days beginning to lengthen, with the first signs of spring beginning to appear. The fields were full of new lambs, and soon the planting season would begin. And, candles were also associated with Lady Brigit because She is a fire goddess. She keeps the sacred flame, and defends the hearth and home as Goddess of the Forge. To Catholics, she is the patron saint of blacksmiths."

Parker asked, "How did She come to be both a Celtic goddess and a Catholic saint?"

"Brigit was too well-loved by the Irish folk to be forgotten. Her name is still commonly given to baby girls in Ireland. The Church found it easier to make headway by declaring her a saint. There are two or three historical nuns who are said to be the original St. Brigit. The most famous of these is Brigit of Kildare, born in the year 451 to Dubthact, then king of Leinster, and a slave woman named Brocca. Therefore, Brigit of Kildare was born into slavery, which gave her a lifelong compassion for the poor and the powerless. This Brigit became an influential holy woman who started many convents and was known for her kindness and generosity to the poor as well as for the miracles she performed. After her death, many of the popular myths associated with the Goddess Brigit became part of the lore surrounding her. Only a generation after her death, she was canonized as Saint Brigit, and to the Catholic people, the saint and the Goddess became one and the same.

"My people's account of the Lady Brigit is somewhat different, since Sidhe traditions surrounding Her were already fixed by the time we first met the Christians. To those of you who are Americans, both the Pagan and the Catholic traditions are a part of your heritage, for I have found that nearly all Americans who are not exclusively of one unmingled bloodline have at least one Irishman or Irishwoman somewhere in their family tree, if you go back far enough."

Miko asked, "Does Imbolc have anything to do with Groundhog Day?"

"Only in that they both celebrate the coming end of winter!" Diarwen smiled. "Six weeks after Imbolc and Groundhog Day is the spring equinox, so whether or not the groundhog sees his shadow, we will have six more weeks of winter! What kind of celebrations do you have in Japan this time of year?"

"That depends on where in Japan you live, _Sensei_. In the north, there are many ice and snow festivals. But in Okinawa, the first cherry blossom festivals are being held now. The _sakura_ bloom later and later the farther north you go, so the northern festivals will be held in late April or May."

"And so, you celebrate the end of winter, and the beginning of spring."

"Yes, _Sensei_."

"And that is what I would have you take away from this discussion," Diarwen said, making brief eye contact with all the others. "Imbolc has many names and many reasons for its celebration, but they are all at base the same: winter is over, the bountiful days are coming, though not arrived yet. For those of us who are Cybertronian, it will be possible to make more energon. For those who are organic, food becomes more varied and plentiful. In either case, Imbolc gives us a reason to celebrate."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Optimus' rich baritone traveled across the phone lines to Diarwen. "Would you like some help with the larger items? Arcee and Chromia are willing to assist."

The Sidhe stopped to survey the quarters she had shared peaceably with Mikaela. Removing her own goods had not left it markedly more bare, for Diarwen owned only what she needed, and kept most of that contained and ready to travel on short notice. She said, "I have only six large boxes, a duffel and a backpack. It is a matter of shrugging into one and carrying the others down the hall."

"Chromia would like to help, you know. Arcee as well."

Diarwen remembered her own mother-in-law, who had also, from a generous heart, wished to help, and smiled. "I should be honored if she carried the duffel with my sword and bow in it, and subspaced my craft items, like my cauldron." Diarwen's cauldron was ceramic, made in Tir nan Og, and any precise chemical analysis of it would give Earth scientists fits. "Arcee can help with the other things, and I should be grateful for that as well. Please accept their offer for me."

"Done. Ironhide is going keep Flareup busy at the critical moment."

Diarwen thought she might cry. "Oh, my. Would you send him my very best thanks, please, this very moment?"

There was a short pause, and then Optimus said, "He sends you his very best snort."

So Diarwen was giggling when Mikaela opened the door. She smiled at Diarwen and shut it behind her while Diarwen said, "I shall speak with you shortly, then," and hung up the phone.

"Well," Mikaela said, "this is it, huh?" She fetched a small package from the shoulder bag she carried. "Chip and I made you a housewarming present."

Diarwen felt her eyes fill with tears; no "might" about this one. "Oh, Mikaela, everyone who knows…you've all been so kind. Optimus and I haven't dared to tell too many human people, though the Cybertronians all know."

Mikaela cocked her head to one side. "Tell you what, though, I'd like to have been a fly on the wall when Optimus told the Colonel about it."

The fly might have been surprised. Lennox, asked to meet "on a private matter" with Optimus, sat at the human-sized conference table on his desk. He received Optimus' news, that he and Diarwen had chosen to share quarters permanently, in courteous silence. Then he narrowed his eyes at his Cybertronian opposite number. "She's my sister. You hurt my sister, big guy, and I will come for you."

"Fortunately," Optimus said smoothly, narrowing his own optics, "I do not think that is much of a concern, but I shall be sure to recharge with one optic open for the rest of my life if it happens."

"You won't have to do it long," Lennox offered. And then the two hardest asses in the entire NEST corps cracked up and shot the digit-gun at each other, before Lennox got up to shake Optimus' finger. "Congratulations, Optimus. You and Diarwen both deserve some happiness."

And so Diarwen smiled at Mikaela, and said, "Indeed. He told me only that it was 'a guy thing.'"

Mikaela laughed, and sat down in the sprung chair that always ate its occupants, and was hard to get out of. "Open it, open it! I can't wait to see what you think!"

When Diarwen peeled back the soy-ink gift wrap, a tiny version of her cauldron met her eyes. She gasped, and Mikaela's face lit up.

Diarwen lifted its lid, hinged on one side, and inside it was a mechanism that would safely vaporize essential oils, with another ceramic insert to hold the oils themselves: citrus oils could corrode metal.

She had long wanted an electronic vaporizer, but could not justify the purchase: she found none she wished to live around that were affordable and, more important, iron-free.

Something like this would be Brigit's own gift for the Figueroas, for instance, whose young children always seemed to be suffering from whatever virus presently went through the youngsters at the base. Set it and forget it; it would shut itself off when the oil was exhausted, working through much of the night safely unattended. She put it down carefully, and went to her knees in front of Mikaela's chair, hugging her. "Oh, thank you, thank you! Thank Chip for me, too! This is wonderful!"

Mikaela returned the hug. "You're welcome, roomie. Last time I can say that to you."

"Yes…you and Chip? Any news there?"

The young engineer sighed. "Diarwen, it's cookin'. That's the best I can say right now. He's talked about marriage a couple of times, but it's early yet. I'm committed to that relationship, and I'll stay in the broom closet the rest of my life if that's what it takes. I hope it won't, but there are no guarantees."

"At least he is talking to you about it. And it may take awhile, but Chip has proven himself open-minded."

Mikaela giggled. "Well, he's working on that one. As you say, it'll take a while, but we've got time."

"Mikaela. Talk to him, as much as he will, about it. You do not have infinite time. None of us do."

Mikaela remembered abruptly that she was speaking with the widow of one Orthelion Silversword, and nodded.

Diarwen rose. "Come and sit with me while I get dinner ready; it is prepared but for the cooking. It will not take long."

"Sure. I got some organic bubbly; Wheeljack chilled it for me."

Diarwen had prepped a Tex-Mex meal, which goes oddly with champagne, but isn't inimical to it. She put her homemade hot sauce on the table, and Mikaela happily made use of it; Diarwen knew she didn't appreciate the level of heat Mikaela liked with her Tex-Mex.

Mikaela poured the last of the bubbly into their flutes, and raised her own. "To us, and our loves," she said.

"To all of us," Diarwen said. They clinked glasses, and finished more than just the bubbly.

The door sounded. Mikaela smiled at Diarwen. "The movers are here."

It felt best to Mikaela to stay inside the apartment and shove the six boxes to within grab range for the sisters. "But joining the parade to your new place, and coming back alone? We might as well hire a brass band."

"I had not thought of that, but you are right," Diarwen said. She handed her duffel, containing sword and bow and the things she could not bear to live without, to Chromia, who subspaced them very carefully.

The Sidhe and the Prime, wishing to avoid gossip, had discussed her relocation very carefully. So at the end of third joor this day, when people who hadn't had a hard day physically were coming out to find an evening's entertainment, Chromia, Arcee, and Diarwen walked down the hall to Optimus' quarters, chatting amiably. None of them were visibly carrying anything other than Diarwen's backpack.

Moments later, all four departed, Optimus to meet with the Wreckers, Diarwen to do some translating with Monique, the two sisters on their way to their own quarters. When, a few hours later, Optimus sent her the message that he had returned, Diarwen was stopped in the halls by Wheeljack.

"Optimus asked me to give you something," the wild-helmed scientist said. "It's in my lab…"

"Something" proved to be a tiny silver cauldron, flat on one side, another duplicate of her own. It concealed the code sender to open Optimus' door, and hung from a silver chain.

The Sidhe gasped, eyes wide, when she saw it, and Wheeljack sent the resulting file to Optimus. "Wheeljack! Did you make this?"

"It wasn't difficult," he said. "Optimus sent me files of your cauldron, and it was easy from there."

"I thank you," she said, placing her tiny hand on the scientist's forearm plating. "If ever there is any single thing I may do for you, I beg you to ask me."

_Not so long ago, you were pretty effective with Ratchet_. But he couldn't say it out loud, so he smiled down at her and said, "If ever there is, I shall be sure to."

Her hands were busy fastening the chain. "Good. You may count it done."

He offered her his palm, and lifted her down to the floor. "Good night," she said, and swept him a curtsey.

Diarwen ni Gilthanel walked the halls of the Mission City base until she came to Optimus' door, squeezed her necklace between thumb and forefinger, and entered her home.

Her boxes were waiting under the bottom shelf. Optimus said, "Roadbuster will be installing a bath and kitchenette for you tomorrow. He has asked for you to be here to tell him where things are to go, and to make sure everything is at the proper height for you."

"Thank you."

"Thank him, my love. This is the Wreckers' gift to you."

"I shall do so," she replied. "These are not my boxes-are these things for the kitchen?"

"I believe one is the table and chairs. I am not sure what is in the other crate. Roadbuster is to bring with him the range and refrigerator, and everything for the plumbing, so it would not be that. Let us open it and find out what it is."

Optimus folded out one battle claw and very carefully pried open the wooden crate. Inside was Diarwen's own desk and chair and bookcase from the farm in Maryland, and more boxes were packed in those. Diarwen gave a little cry of delight to find many of her books, which she had left with Betony for lack of space in her barracks apartment.

Optimus said, "I am going to ask Roadbuster to make a second window below this one, at a proper level for you to see outside. Let anyone make of that what they will."

"But we will be moving to the cliff before too long, will we not?"

"In the summer. it would be like living in a cave if the bottom of your only window were four times your height. This is your home, my love, for as long as we are living here. I wish for you to be comfortable in it."

Diarwen smiled.

There was a knock at the door. Optimus looked up as their caller apparently sent an identity glyph; this guess was confirmed when he said, "It is Ironhide."

Chromia and Evanon were there as well. Evanon carried a large sack, and said, "Good joor, Prime, Lady Diarwen. We ask leave of my lord and lady to enter your home."

"Enter, and welcome!" Diarwen replied, with a wide grin. She had forgotten that there was one here who knew the old ways and brought a proper blessing.

She took the bag, and he said, "Bless all within this house."

"I thank you, and bless all who enter as guests!"

"We bring you a loaf of bread that this home will never hunger,

Salt, that this life will always have flavor,

Wine, that there will always be celebration and joy in the home,

Silver, that there will always be prosperity,

And a candle, that all who dwell here will know the light of Our Lady Brigit's hearth, and the warmth of love. So mote it be."

"So mote it be," Diarwen replied. "Thank you so much for blessing the home which we have made."

Ironhide unsubspaced a small cube of energon and presented it to his foster-son. It was only a token amount, but it carried a great deal more meaning than its size would have indicated.

Chromia hugged both of them. "We won't stay long, because I know you have a lot of unpacking and rearranging to do. Diarwen, tell me tomorrow if there's anything more you need."

"Oh, Chromia-how could I ever need anything more than I have at this moment?" Her eyes sparkled silver behind a veil of joyful tears.

The cycleformer gave her another hug. "We'll see you tomorrow."

Ironhide and Optimus shared a bear hug and Ironhide said gruffly, "You be good to her, make sure you deserve her."

Diarwen flushed red, and Optimus said, "I intend to do just that."

The three of them did not outstay their welcome. Optimus sent a locking glyph behind them.

"I am sorry if Ironhide embarrassed you. As head of our cohort, it is custom for him to make sure that anyone bringing in a mate treats that person well. The honor of the entire cohort is involved."

"I see," she smiled.

"Now, I believe we shall have the rest of the evening to ourselves. Let us find a way to give our home a proper housewarming, shall we?"

Diarwen thought her grin would crack her jaw. "I believe we might think of something, at that." She rolled the bag down tightly over the loaf of bread and left it for morning. Food could wait until later-much later.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Eastland Church Compound)

Shad White finished his morning's work at the barn, signed for it, and nodded farewell to the barn boss. He waved at David, who waved back, and at one or two other friends.

Shad had an "easy" today: his chore was of short duration in the morning, and he wasn't assigned anything in the afternoon. Middle and high-school kids got one such day every two weeks, and were expected to spend it on homework.

He pulled his work basket—each of his siblings except his eldest sister Judith had one, as Judith had graduated from high school at fourteen—and sat down with it at the computer table. The family calendar on the wall behind the desk held entries for his homework, and some other information, currently "Martin Neilson's bday" entered for Tuesday of the next week.

Abruptly, Shad remembered the conversation he and David had overheard while rescuing the sheep. Martin Neilson had spoken to a Transformer named Barricade, and it was a Transformer named Jolt who had helped Shad when the Church went to break up that Pagan…whatever it was, back in June, in Illinois.

He logged in. Martin Neilson's email was also visible on the net, and Shad, giving in to an uncharacteristic curiosity, entered it, and tapped in Martin's month and day of birth.

Bingo, he was in.

Shad frankly snooped. He found out how much money Martin had access to, and where it went. Martin's list of e-mail contacts was quite extensive, grouped into folders marked "Level One" on up to "Level Five," and a sixth titled "Work Contacts." All of those Level Five contacts had been shared with Eldon's wife, Marian, a woman of heavy bosom, bat-wing underarms, and a small mean mouth. Her small mean dog was named Babycakes, and Shad considered that if ever someone needed to prove that the pet was just like the master, all they needed to do was come meet Marian and Babycakes.

And that gave Shad an idea. He called up mneilson at-symbol Eastland dot net, typed "Babycakes" into the "password" section, and metaphorically crossed his fingers.

Marian's life opened before him like a flower.

Conversations left in the inbox were confirming rather than instructive. Marian had a sister who, a year ago, had written that she was sorry, but she couldn't correspond anymore; they had nothing in common, and Marian didn't seem to realize how hate-filled she had become. Marian's own father bounced her emails. Her mother said firmly, "I will not discuss religion with you, Marian."

While he was reading those, new messages appeared in Marian's inbox, forwarded from other addresses. He switched email providers, entered the first addy, and Babycakes got him in again.

A quick check of Marian's Sent Mail here scarred Shad for the rest of his life. Page after page of vitriol scrolled past the boy's horrified eyes: "If I could get my hands on you I'd skin you alive and tape-record the sweet music of your agonized screams as the flesh rips from your bones…if you were my kid I'd chain your ankles together and drag you to death behind my truck…A man sleeping with another man is an abomination before God, and we who do God's work will purge all your kind with fire and blood…little pervert, you're only thirteen years old and you're already doomed to spend eternity in Hell."

The second addy was, if anything, worse. The folder titled "Successes" consisted of emails sent back and forth between Marian, here known as Babycakes15, and various young teenagers from all across the US. Nevada, Oregon, Wyoming, Montana, South Carolina, Ohio, New Jersey, Louisiana.

Babycakes had written to nanoboy14, "You know…it hurts so much, I just want it all to end. I wonder about doing that all the time. I wonder if you feel anything, or if it's just all over all of a sudden."

nanoboy14 had written back, "I think about that too. My family doesn't have any guns, and I'm too young to buy them. I wonder if a knife hurts? How about hanging? I know where my folks keep their booze, but I don't know how to get any pills. I've heard that works."

Marian had replied within two minutes. She wrote, "Guns leave an awful mess, I think. A knife isn't supposed to hurt if you do it in the bathtub. You have to slice your wrists, but not across. You do it from the elbow down to the wrist. And I've heard that if you jump from a high enough place when you hang yourself, you break your neck instead of smothering, and that is much quicker."

There was a three-minute pause, and then Marian had sent, "I'm gonna do it tomorrow night. You wanna do it too?"

nanoboy14 sent back a one-word reply in 64-point type: "YES."

They set a time. The entry after that, made the next day, quoted a police report from Elkhorn, Idaho: an unnamed local teenager had died. Marian had doubtless cut-and-pasted that into the body of the email, and used "Forward " to send it to herself.

The text of that Forward read only, "Success!"

There were seven other "Success!" emails to herself.

One child had required more careful handling, and in fact Marian had emailed Martin about the boy's recalcitrance. Martin sent back a short, blistering email: "I'll add him back 2 the list but in God's beautiful Name, Marian, how many times I got 2 tell U not 2 use ur sock puppets 2 contac me! Start up new 1 close this 1 down."

Which Marian obviously hadn't.

Shad knew, suddenly and beyond any doubt, that he was gay, and that if the compound were aware of that he would be hunted down and killed by people he thought friends and neighbors. He swallowed, closed all the programs. When the opening screen returned he went to the bathroom and threw up his breakfast.

His nausea receded swiftly, and a few games of Wonderlines later, his appetite nagged him. He made himself a peanut butter and banana triple-decker sandwich on his mom's good bread, and ate it over the kitchen sink, rinsing out his milk glass afterward and stowing it in the dishwasher.

The clean-up completed, Shad spread his homework out on the computer table, but couldn't find the energy to start it. His thoughts whirled through his head, round and round and round.

He was gay. He knew that now. He also knew that his father couldn't, maybe wouldn't, protect him from Reverend Dowling, or Martin, Eldon, and Zeph Neilson.

He could protect himself physically from Marian, but not from the vitriol of her tongue.

He was thirteen years old. What was he going to do?

Who could he talk to? David, maybe. Maybe they could run away together.

No. He didn't want to run away. This was his family. He belonged to them, and they belonged to him. If anyone loved him, it was these people. And maybe David.

His thoughts were still spinning through his brain when the door opened and all four of his sisters came in.

His eldest sister, Judith, came straight to him. "Hey, Shad, you okay? Nobody's seen you all day since you left the barn in the morning, and you don't look like you feel good."

"I'm okay. I was just doin' homework," he said, nodding to the proof spread out before him.

Judith said, "Okay. We'll make sandwiches, then. Mom and Dad went to town for some stuff."

Shad ate another sandwich, listening to his sisters' light voices making a joy of their day. When they left for their afternoon's work, he knew what he had to do. He went back to the computer nook in the old farmhouse, sat down, drew a deep breath, and tapped into the email program.

Jolt was the only kind adult Shad knew outside the compound, those he knew inside it he also knew wouldn't help him, and Shad needed help. He reached out for it. Martin's correspondence with Barricade had been sent to Barricade at-symbol missioncity dot mil dot gov, so he entered a parallel address using Jolt's name in the "To" line.

He must have written that email over fifty times before he was done. When he was finished, it said only, "Hi, Jolt. I don't know if you remember me? I'm the kid you helped out at that Pagan rally in Illinois, not too long after the Battle of Chicago. Jolt, I'm in trouble. I'm gay and my family doesn't know that. The church we belong to—the Eastland Church, we live in its compound—wants to kill gays. One of the members has outed other gay kids and said some really horrible things to them. Jolt, I'm only thirteen and I don't know what to do. Please help me. Thank you, Shad White."

He sat back and breathed, just breathed, in and out. Then he hit the Send button. He played another desultory game of Wonderlines and checked his email, but his guess at Jolt's addy must have been accurate: the email had not been bounced back to him.

His prayer had been sent on its way.

(End Part Twenty)


	21. Chapter 21

Sidhe Chronicles 8 – A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Six

Part Twenty

(Disclaimers in Part One)

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Portland, Oregon)

Frank Hastings turned the pages of the _Oregonian_ until he found the proper article. "Man found dead in car. Police suspect no foul play in the death of a man found in his car in a parking lot in southeast Portland last Tuesday evening. A shopper returning to her car discovered the body of Lowell Zain, 45, formerly of Albuquerque, New Mexico. According to the medical examiner, Zain was the victim of an apparent heart attack. A veteran of Operation Desert Storm, Zain was a security consultant for Hastings Corp. Fellow employees expressed shock at the news of his death, since Zain had appeared to be in perfect health." A link to an article on the paper's web site on the causes of sudden death among middle-aged men ended the article.

Hastings looked up at Zain's young "nephew" and said dryly, "My condolences on the passing of your uncle."

Lowell Zain said, straight-faced, "I'll attempt to fill his shoes."

He looked like his "uncle." Not much, not in the face, more in passing expressions or the way he moved his head. And he dressed in a more relaxed manner than his "uncle" had: no suit and tie. Instead, a grey polo shirt and jeans over leather sneakers.

Or that's what it looked like, anyway. Perhaps he could extrude something that looked like a suit at will. Hastings did not even know how to ask that question.

"I'm sure you will," he snorted instead. "How are you doing? Any problems?"

"No, sir, I've got the hang of my new senses, and I've been cleared to start training with the team this afternoon."

"New senses?" Hastings said, and folded the paper neatly, putting it to one side.

"Yes, sir, I still have the same ones, and that's what I recognized when I first woke up—came online—" Lowell Zain Mark II stopped, shrugged, said, "whatever. But there's a lot more data. I can expand the range of my vision to see infrared or ultraviolet. Sure beats packing around night-vision goggles! I can hear beyond the human range, and that took a little getting used to. I hear things that never made a noise before, so I don't know what they are at first. And then there's the electrical fields. That's a major sense for us now, but we don't have a frame of reference for it. We have to learn how to use it, and we'll have to learn a common basis for describing what we sense."

"I never thought about that."

"There are a lot of things none of us have thought about. Would you like to come out to the training facility with me, sir? You might find it interesting."

"As a matter of fact, I would. You don't need a coat?"

"Not yet. If I were to go out tonight, when it's below freezing, and stand sentry duty, where I couldn't move around a lot? I'd need one for that. We're just not big enough to keep ourselves warm below about 25 Fahrenheit."

"Even DeWayne?"

"Haven't asked him. You want to?"

For answer, Hastings smiled, and they moved off toward the elevators. "The Cybertronians got here through space, though, so how did they do that? Some of them came on the _Xantium_, but as far as anyone knows, the first group got here under their own power. How did they do that without freezing?" He turned to face the younger man as the elevator doors slid shut.

"They have a special mode for that. When they're in it, they roll up into a ball and devote most of their mass and energon to insulation and propulsion. They also incorporate other materials to serve as an ablative heat shield during re-entry. We can't do that, since we don't have enough mass. We'd have to have a space ship, or I guess travel with someone like that big bruiser who just landed in Mission City."

The doors opened. "I see what you mean."

"Most of us have two humanoid modes, this one, and our root mode, the spiky metal form with the tail."

"Yeah, what's it like having a tail?"

"You saw _Avatar_, didn't you, sir? Kinda like that until I learned to control the damn thing. But it comes in handy now that I have it convinced it's supposed to do what I tell it. That's why most of my clothes are part of my alt mode. A coat is about the same from one form to the other, but anything else wouldn't work if I had to transform in a hurry. And I'd rather fight in root mode," Zane explained. He held the outer door for his employer.

"You know what, if we had an unlimited supply of protoforms, I'd be really tempted," Frank Hastings said thoughtfully. The car beeped and popped its trunk, from which he removed the light jacket with a hood usable through most of the year in Portland.

"No regrets here, sir, but it's an adjustment. I can see where a lot of people might not be that happy with it."

They left the parking lot for a path through the trees. Hastings asked, "Why not?"

"Well, girls, sir. There aren't any. Human women are a different species than we are now, if you get my drift."

"Yeah? What's wrong with 'em?"

"Nothing's wrong with _them_; we're the ones who changed. I kinda—got one of the nurses to try a little experiment," Zain finished, in a rush. "In the interest of science, you understand. Let's just say the results were, umm, satisfactory from her point of view but we weren't exactly, uhh, compatible from mine." He moved right along. "I don't think that's quite dawned on the rest of the guys yet, but when it does...let's just say I anticipate a morale issue."

"We're gonna have to recruit some women."

"Sir, there's no way I can justify asking a female to do this just because she _is_ female. Any female who qualifies for this program is going to be just as good as any of the males. She would break your neck when she realized that's why you brought her in."

The training grounds were a separate property, adjacent to but not part of the hospital/hospice/geriatric residence grounds. It was set far enough away to muffle any noises, and the encircling thickets of blackberry that sprawled all through Portland kept it safe from prying eyes. The two men walked down a long, narrow trail that wound between tall trees, well-kept but hedged in on either side by head-high mounds of thorny bushes.

"That's not what I mean," Hastings said, hands in pockets. "We just bring them in, integrate them into the program, women who are completely qualified. Nobody but the two of us ever knows that we had anything else in mind, other than their qualifications, when we recruited them. And, well, if people do what people do when they're off duty, that solves that problem."

"That could work, sir, as long as we're careful not to create chain of command issues."

"We'll have to organize things in a way that makes it possible to work around that."

"Yes, sir, that'll be easier once we have more people. We'll have two-thirds of a full platoon once once the second group transitions."

"What's your readiness now?"

"Right now, we've got three fire teams, and I'm willing to say we could take on most of the cons and make a good showing for ourselves. They don't have our discipline, sir. The Autobots seem to be even better than we are at it, but if you watch the video of their engagements you can see them incorporating Ranger tactics as time goes on, from Mission City to Egypt to Chicago. That's how a small unit was able to be so effective against a much larger force in Chicago, sir. Megatron had a gang of vicious criminals. Optimus Prime has soldiers." Zain Mark II walked straight through an encroaching pillow of blackberry vines, complete with thorns, and the vines lost.

He wasn't wearing clothes, Hastings realized, but had extruded them."Since you now have senses more like theirs than ours, have you heard anything over the air from either side?"

"Some. We have our transmissions locked down—all we'd need would be for one person to squawk something in the clear and we'd have both sides searching the area. But we can hear 'em just fine. Can't triangulate on the signals, we tried. I'm not sure how they're doing that yet but our best accuracy is about a fifty-mile radius. With the Autobots, you hear what you'd expect to with a normal military unit. When they use a clear channel, it's disciplined, and it's normal for radio chatter around a military base. Without understanding the language, I'd say it's standard stuff, sir."

"And the 'Cons?" Zain had preceded Hastings down a muddy, steep part of the trail, and turned back to offer a hand. Hastings considered, and took it. He wasn't a Pretender yet.

"They're locked down too, mostly. Occasionally I pick up a click, or at most what can't be more than a word or two. And they're always on the move when they do get on the radio. They've gone off the grid, sir. That's how a small group on the run survives."

"So the 'Cons are using the same kinds of tactics you'd expect from a terrorist cell or a criminal gang?"

"That's probably accurate, sir. It doesn't mean they're disorganized or incompetent. It means our military background gives us some advantages, but what they do has other advantages."

The gate to the training area loomed out the bushes past the next turn in the path.

"Something to think about."

"Yes, sir. Of course, their main advantage is the sheer size of those two huge 'Cons, the ones called Blitzwing and Lugnut. We're going to need more firepower than we have at our disposal now to have a chance to take either of them down without assistance."

The distant sound of men calling cadence floated through the chill air. It took Hastings back thirty years to Parris Island; he had served his hitch without seeing combat, and he realized now how lucky he had been. He could have been one of these guys, and he was old enough now to understand the price that they had paid for being the right age at the right time and place.

All Hastings said, though, was "You'll have your firepower before you go operational." He would make sure they had all they needed to do their jobs.

Through the trees, they approached the tall chain link fence that surrounded the training facility. On paper, it was a private paintball club and shooting range, and from the air, that was exactly what it looked like: a large structure which had once been a barn overlooked a field full of hay bales, tire stacks and makeshift sheds and barricades, all of which were liberally splattered with paint. An obstacle course surrounded the paintball field. On the other side of the barn was a gun range which looked no different from any other.

"Where's the best place to observe?"

Zain told Hastings, "If you go inside the barn, sir, you can watch from the loft. There's a radio headset up there that's on the same frequency as our comms."

Hastings went inside. The bottom floor of the structure was used for storage—boxes of paper targets, paintballs, an area to charge and clean paintball guns.

Two small energon cubes sat on a windowsill, Hastings wondered how many Pretenders that would supply but there was a stack of small juice glasses next to them. Hastings guessed that they didn't need a lot, compared to the big mecha. He wondered where those cubes had come from, and if they could be traced—that went on his list of questions to ask Zain after the PT session ended.

Another question on that list was what good PT did people in robotic bodies.

There was a tall ladder to the loft. Hastings didn't make a habit of climbing ladders these days, but he had come up the hard way through a construction company after his hitch in the Marines, and he certainly hadn't forgotten how.

The loft was set up as a briefing room, a ragged circle of folding chairs punctuated by a whiteboard and a table with a video projector and a laptop computer. The diagram looked like a football play chart, though instead of the usual gridiron, there was a rough map of the paintball field. On the walls were a couple of posters of paintball champions and an advertising calendar from a paintball company. Some well-read magazines devoted to the sport were also scattered around. Hastings had to grin. If anyone did decide to investigate, the only thing that would have to be hidden was the energon, and no one would take this for anything other than the clubhouse that it appeared to be.

He agreed it was best to keep the energon out here. Nearly everything else could be hidden in plain sight in Pierpoint's lab, but the cubes had to be in the sun to function, which made them difficult to conceal. There were occasionally people at the facility who weren't in on the whole story, and they would notice glowing pink cubes.

The loft had one of those doors that opened into thin air, to allow bales of hay to be winched inside. Hastings didn't know what it was called, but a folding table and a couple of chairs had been set up in front of it. This lookout perch had a good view of the whole area. He found the headset, turned it on and adjusted it.

Zain had caught up with his team, including Pierpoint, and they were running the obstacle course.

For the rest of them, it was apparently a workout. For Pierpoint, it was a huge challenge. He got tangled up in the tires and fell on his face. He climbed a pole and jumped for a rope hanging from a tall tree limb, but missed and fell in a mud pit. Crawling under barbed wire, he raised his ass too high and got the barbed wire stuck in a transformation seam. Thoroughly aggravated, he whipped his tail up to slice the wire—but when the pressure was let off it, the strands flew in all directions and tangled him up. Hastings laughed at the scientist's cursing, which he could hear perfectly well without the headset.

DeWayne leaned over from outside the obstacle and snapped a few strands of wire. "OK there, Derek?"

"Yeah."

"You need to get out?"

"No, I'm going to finish the damn thing this time!"

"OK, ya almost got it, keep going! Keep yo' ass down!"

The scientist crawled free of the barbed wire, then stopped to take a good long look at a climbing wall. When he moved, he climbed slowly but steadily to the top.

Hastings realized he had memorized the locations of hand and toe holds and planned his climb before starting.

Once he got to the top, however, there was no way down the other side except to jump to an air bag at the foot of the wall. In basic training there would be a cargo net to climb down; the jump came from airborne and other elite-unit training. It wasn't that high a jump for Pretenders, especially not for those who had come out of airborne units, or special forces units like the Rangers or SEALS—though those guys were a whole other level beyond jump units. But Pierpoint didn't have that training, hadn't even been through Basic.

He made a good try, but he didn't take into account that he was much stronger now. He pushed off too hard, missed the air bag, and landed badly.

Hastings left the headset and hurried down the ladder, then ran to the climbing wall. Pierpoint was down, curled up on his side gripping his left leg above the ankle.

Zain got there first and told him, "Run a diagnostic! Did you bust a strut?"

"It isn't broken, but it's bent out of alignment," Pierpoint replied. "That was so stupid!"

"No, it was gung ho. We've all had training accidents, and you learn from them. Do you think it will hold your weight?" Glasco asked.

"I don't know, I'm afraid if I put my weight on it, it will either snap a motivator cable, or it might break the strut if I put too much stress on it. I need to get back to my lab and see if I can straighten it out, before it self-repairs like that."

DeWayne said, "Hold on, don't try to get up yet." He transformed to his second alt, a small motorcycle. "Do you know how to ride a bike?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

Glasco said, "Let me help you up, Doc. Put your weight on your good leg."

"Hang onto my handlebars," DeWayne told him. "We're not gonna let ya fall. Somebody help him get his bad leg over the seat."

They maneuvered him carefully onto the cycleformer, who made sure his passenger was safely in position before carrying him back to the facility. Glasco made sure that they could handle it from there, then got the rest of his unit back to work. Hastings and Zain walked on either side, but even though Pierpoint was clearly in a lot of pain, if that was what it would be called, Hastings thought, he managed to balance himself well enough.

The back of the building had a loading dock, and DeWayne made use of its ramp to roll right through the door into a corridor only used by employees. He stayed in alt mode nearly all the way to Pierpoint's lab, which was also located in the basement but in a corridor that saw more traffic. Hastings got the doors while the other two Pretenders assisted their teammate.

Pierpoint opened his leg armor. Some of the plates had bent and twisted, and would not open normally. He winced as he removed them manually.

Hastings was surprised to see the younger man's optics fill with clear fluid. Their optics "watered" as a response to damage?

Zain saw the same thing. "Derek, do you know how to damp your pain sensors?"

"Yes, I have them turned down as much as I can, but I can't turn them off completely. I need the data to make sure I don't make it worse."

"What can we do to help?"

"I need my tool box, and DeWayne, if you could go ahead and reshape those plates, I'd appreciate it."

Hastings spotted the tool box and brought it over, while the big cycleformer took the graying plates over to a workbench and started the careful work of pounding out the dents with a rubber mallet. The detached plates continued to fade to a dull, ashen gray as he worked.

Hastings asked, "Are they supposed to change colors like that?"

"Not supposed to, but the chromatophores aren't getting energon so they shut off. That's why dead Cybertronians turn gray, sir. They'll color back up again as soon as Derek reattaches 'em."

Pierpoint, with Zain's assistance, sorted out the wires and cables that had been tangled by the mishap, and replaced a damaged energon line, clipping each out of the way as he finished. Then he said, "DeWayne, I'm going to need your help, too, for this part."

DeWayne brought the panels over and set them on the exam table beside Derek's tool box. "What do you need me to do?

"Bend the strut back into position. Lowell, I need you to hold my leg down."

The two Pretenders got into position. "OK, ya ready?"

Pierpoint made a clicking sound, then nodded. Hastings wasn't sure what had made that noise—until Dewayne for all intents and purposes set Pierpoint's leg.

Derek jerked against Zain's grip and clenched his hands on the edge of the table, but the only sound he made was a stream of modem noise. Hastings felt like he had been punched in the gut when he realized that Pierpoint had shut off his vocalizer to keep from screaming out loud.

DeWayne asked, "That got it, Derek?"

Another click, and Pierpoint replied, "Yeah—yeah, I think so."

Zain went to a cabinet and measured out a small quantity of energon from a beaker. "Here."

"I don't want to waste the medical high grade," Pierpoint objected.

"You need it to heal," Zain pointed out. "And having our medic hopping on one foot affects the whole unit. Drink it, and get some rest."

Pierpoint took it. "Thanks, Lowell."

"No problem. You did good out there, Derek. When you're feeling better, analyze what happened so you don't do the same thing twice. We'll make sure you've got the proper training before you try jumping off anything that high again."

Hastings asked, "How long will it take to recover from an injury like that?"

Pierpoint sipped his energon. The high-grade tasted like he would expect something distilled in a lab to taste. It wasn't the Cybertronian version of single-malt Scotch, but it kicked his self-repair into high gear and eased the pain. "Depends on how much microscopic damage I did to the strut, Mr. Hastings. I'll be able to give you a better estimate of the time frame after self-repair has progressed a little, but I'm going to guess a few days for my normal duties, probably closer to a week before I can train again."

"Beats a couple of months in a cast," Zain said.

"That's true!"

"Get some shuteye. DeWayne, get him some crutches so he can get around if he feels like it."

Pierpoint said, "I don't have any in here; you'll have to ask Rita for a pair."

DeWayne went to do that. Zain and Hastings left as well, because Pierpoint wouldn't recharge while they were in there.

Out in the hall, Hastings said, "That could have been a whole lot worse. I mean, it was just his leg he hit."

"Yeah, if Pierpoint damaged something vital, nobody else knows enough to help him. We don't even have a first aid manual. We're making this shit up as we go along."

"I'll tell you who does know, the Autobots."

"Does us fuck-all good," Zain griped.

"Yeah, I can just see what would go down if you walked up to Ratchet and said, 'Hey, teach me some Cybertronian medical techniques, willya?' He's big, and from what I've been able to gather, he's got a temper of a size to match."

"I'll bet they've got first aid manuals. Hell, I'd like to have a translation file for their language. You know how much data comes across my HUD that's wasted because I don't read Cybertronian?"

Hastings considered. "Maybe not Ratchet, but one of the others?"

"Yeah, you know what, that scientist of theirs, Wheeljack or Que or whatever his name actually is? He's not much of a fighter. If we could get him away from the others and talk to him, we might be able to get some useful information."

Hastings said, "We're going to have to do something. We need that information before the team can go out in the field."

Zain nodded. "I'll start working on a plan, but we're not going to be able to do anything until after the next group transitions. I need the manpower. Mechpower. Whatever."

"You know, Michael Sunderland picked up a lot of spoken Cybertronian just by watching them on TV. After he transitions, he might be able to decipher the written language too. At least, the stuff that pops up on your HUD all the time."

"I hope so. It sure would help."

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(New Darkmount)

Clouds, dense and thickening, hid Arvador 7's two moons and blocked most of the ultraviolet light that would ordinarily have allowed Borealis to see. Now, thunder echoed off the shadowed cliffs around the stronghold Strika had named New Darkmount, while the thin air tasted strongly of ozone from the lightning which battered the peaks. Soon a deluge would break, turning the stream that cut the valley far below from a quick-flowing freshet to a violent torrent.

The femme seeker laced her servos across her abdominal plating, just below her spark. Already her gestational chamber swelled with eggs. Two orn before they should, they were forcing her internals to reconfigure and make room. She could feel the strain against her plating. Unlatching her armor gave her some relief, but with her trine mates patrolling the system, she felt safe enough to do that only within the security of her own eyrie.

Lightning struck somewhere on the heights, throwing pyrotechnics throughout the surrounding energy field. Her new sparks fluttered inside their eggs. She calmed them and went back inside, pacing the ancient stone corridors of the stronghold.

Borealis' mercurial brood-temper, combined with her new status as Strika's consort, encouraged most passersby to give her plenty of room. The discomfort of carrying grated on her, and she had been somewhat astonished to find herself more than willing to take it out on any unfortunate who added to her misery. A slash of her claws or a buffet with a razor-sharp wingtip was likely to result from annoying her while within her reach.

All of Strika's faction, including Strika herself, came swiftly to understand that functioning in her presence was enough to annoy her. Even her trinemates treated her with newfound deference, and stayed out of her way as much as possible; that thought, though, brought the coolant perilously close to her optics.

They should have been back by now. The trine bond was muted and strained; all three had had to damp it to mate with Strika.

Borealis still felt like heading for the washracks whenever she thought about that. Not that Strika had done anything untoward—even _she_ would not have dared such, not with Borealis' trinemates present.

At least, thank Primus, her brooding protocols had activated properly. That couldn't be relied on when an outsider was one of the sires. Then the poor carrier was left with eggs she did not want but was responsible for. That led to a short carrying cycle and small, sickly sparklings who had gotten only the minimum of support from a carrier whose frame treated them as parasites.

Borealis might be unhappy with the way her sparklings had come to be, but she would give them the best start in life that she could, she thought. They were, after all, only one-third Strika's, two-thirds her own and Skyquake's. She could live with that.

Oddly enough, the mating had brought her closer to Skyquake. She and Dreadwing were…trinemates, really, but nothing more. She still wondered if they would have chosen her for trine if any other untrined seeker had been available.

Best to avoid that thought. It was done now, and couldn't be undone; they were bonded.

She decided to climb up to the command center and find out from the duty officer where her trinemates were.

She told herself that she wasn't really worried about them, they were both excellent fliers, and even a storm such as this one promised to be would be within their abilities to fly through successfully. They would know whether conditions allowed them to land here, or if it would be necessary to land where they had more wingroom and walk up the canyon to base.

She could tell herself that all she wanted, but when another lightning bolt struck nearby, the crash of thunder following within a split second, she hurried her pace.

Voices within the command center alerted her that there were more mecha inside than simply whoever had drawn monitor duty that day.

Among Decepticons, the small and sneaky had a chance to advance by subterfuge equal to that of the large and strong, who used direct action. Borealis winched in her fields, stepped into a shadowed recess in the doorway, and listened to the discussion within.

Strika asked, "Well, report. Did you see anything?"

Dreadwing replied, "Nothing concrete. It definitely felt like a spacebridge had been opened, but it was gone when we got there. Also, the storm was much more intense there, and the temperature was significantly lower than the surrounding area. You see a lot of weird weather on these organic planets, but that seemed anomalous. We combed the area and scanned thoroughly, but discovered nothing to explain it."

"Hmm. Still." Strika turned from Borealis' trinemate to her OD, and Borealis, seeing her face again, felt a wave of revulsion so strong it nearly knocked her off her feet. "Double the patrols in that area, and if sensors detect another ground bridge, my standing order is to send a patrol to investigate immediately, then notify me."

"Yes, General Strika," the OD replied, and focused on his console, recording the order.

Skyquake said, "I wonder whose it could be. If the Autobots had a spacebridge, they'd be using it to supply themselves."

Strika said, "You're right; I'm sure it's not them, though I don't know who else it could be."

Dreadwing said, "There's the weather anomaly, too. Have you ever heard of anything like that associated with a spacebridge?"

"No, I have not," the triple-changer replied. "Some new technology, possibly, or some effect local to this planet. The important thing is to catch whoever it is."

"Of course." Dreadwing seemed to draw into himself, becoming a neon-flashed cloud, apart from the conversation. Borealis had experienced his doing that to her many times; she had no idea that that was simply Dreadwing. She thought it was aimed toward herself. That knowledge might make it easier to be his trinemate in the future.

Her audials swiveled and focused at the sound of her name. "How is Borealis' gestation progressing?"

And wasn't that telling, she thought. Not "How is Borealis," but "How is the gestational chamber I'm using functioning?"

"She is very uncomfortable and that makes her difficult to live with. What else is new?" Skyquake replied. His tone was not accusatory, but then he'd always been…sweet, somehow, to Borealis.

"Did that worthless healer say how long before she clutches?" Strika moved to her command chair, which put her in profile to Borealis. That was easier, somehow, than seeing her face-to-face.

"He would only say sparklings develop at their own rate. He did say that the modifications he will have to make to her frame will require him to confine her to medbay soon."

Strika made a dismissive gesture. "What about the hatchlings?"

"Too big for her. We should have all carried," Skyquake said reprovingly.

Strika laughed, harshly. "Don't be a fool. Borealis is no loss to my armada. She will never be an effective warrior. All that she is good for is breeding. Let her concentrate on that, and modify herself accordingly."

Borealis felt as if she'd been slapped, and heard both her trinemates mantle their wings in disapproval.

"Oh, be quiet. She was happy enough to have a caste again. She won't be grounded long enough to be all _that_ upset about it. And it isn't as if she wants the hatchlings after she separates. Once they hatch, we can put them right into adult frames and she can start on the next batch as soon as she's recovered. Do whatever it takes to keep her happy, and clutching sparklings."

"What do you mean, keep her happy?" Dreadwing said, at the same time Skyquake protested, "General, nothing makes her happy!"

"Do I have to spell everything out for you imbeciles? Spoil her! Bring her some high grade and make her feel safe enough to loosen her plating! She's your slagging trinemate. You know her needs."

Dreadwing said, "She is a responsibility, not a true trinemate. She has always been an annoying youngling."

Borealis felt the spark clutch within her. Of her two trinemates, Skyquake had always been the kinder to her ….but she had no idea …

Sometimes, the worst that could happen was hearing said what you had known all along. Gravid, she slipped away from the control center and the presence, tainted now forever, of the genitors of her sparklings.

She turned her back on their eyrie and sought out the lower levels. She had heard enough, and had enough.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

Sawbones finished cleaning up his medbay after repairing Swindle's latest collection of dents, courtesy of Payload. Sawbones no longer bothered asking what they had been fighting about. He looked up as the door slid open.

"Sawbones?"

"I'm here, just sweeping up. Come on in. Is something wrong?"

"I hurt. It feels like I'm going to split."

Sawbones put up his broom and said, "Hop up here and let me run a scan."

She did. He saw how shiny her optics were with coolant, but didn't say anything yet, just concentrated on the scan.

Then he sat back and sighed. Sometimes, "Don't get emotionally involved with your patients" just didn't work. He knew, everyone in Strika's crew knew, what had compelled Borealis to attempt this…unwise breeding. "Borealis, you have three healthy sparklings, but they're maturing faster than I thought they would. You're going to need to reconfigure soon, and after that happens you're going to have to remain grounded, and if we're not lucky stationary, until you're ready to separate your eggs."

"How long will I still be able to move around if that happens?"

"Another three orn, at the very most—probably less."

"What will you have to do to me?"

He forced himself to say calmly, "Remove your armor plating and enlarge your gestation chamber. More support bracing will be necessary in order to prevent your other systems from being damaged. You're also going to need energon supplements."

Coolant filled her optics again. "Enlarge my...oh, Primus! Have you ever done anything like that before?"

Sawbones shook his head. "I was just a small town healer in an isolated colony before Strika decided I was coming with you, Borealis. I've never created such a modification before. I've researched it, and the procedure seems fairly straightforward, but I'm inexperienced: that creates a risk to you and your sparklings outside the inherent risk of the carrying, which isn't negligible."

She put her helm into her servos, and Sawbones saw, to his great discomfort, coolant trickling over her digits. She sobbed, twice, then said, "What am I going to do? I was such an idiot ever to agree to this!"

Oh Primus, he'd hoped this conversation would go like this. "You have three options. First, attempt the procedure in spite of the risks. Second, terminate one of the sparklings to make room for the other two-"

"No! How could you suggest such a thing!"

"Borealis, _listen_. This is a very dangerous gestation for all four of you. If you had no access to medical care, at best only one of those hatchlings would survive, but it is most likely none of you would."

That raised her helm; she made optic contact. He continued, "The other two shells would certainly be crushed before the sparklings developed enough to survive without them. You and the other hatchling would have only a slim chance of surviving separation, because once the other two died, that hatchling would utilize the resources all three previously required to grow very large. That's why seekers carry one hatchling each. And that doesn't _begin_ to account for the the size difference involved in this case. It might come down to losing one, or losing all four of you, do you understand?"

Borealis wrung her servos. "You said there were three options. What's the third?"

He sighed. Oh, how he wished she could take him with her. "Before you get too big to fly, get yourself to a healer who has a lot more experience than I do with designing and installing mods: Ratchet, with the Autobots on Earth. I have a list here of the things you need to steal to take with you—word is the Autobots are short on supplies."

The little green femme cocked her head at him, but the coolant in her optics dried up. "It's a long way—would I make it in time?"

"There are a few space bridges still operating along the way; you should be fine if you use them. I think it's your best chance to separate all three safely: your best bet for the survival of all four of you. But whether you could persuade your trine mates to go with you is another thing."

She shook her head. "They don't want me anyway," she said, and he heard wounded pride but not emotional pain in her voice.

Sawbones shook his head, but offered no disclaimer: this, he thought, rather than her present predicament, was the real source of his empathy for the young green femme. Borealis had always been destined to get the short end of that stick—their trine bond would always be secondary to Dreadwing and Skyquake. Spark-split twins came first with one another, and trinemates had to get used to that. That Borealis couldn't, or had and no longer could, might save her from the pain of breaking the bond. He hoped that she could do that successfully and make a new life somewhere. For that matter, he hoped to survive his own enslavement to Borealis, but that hope was fading. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not so very sure that I am," she sighed. "Did you know that Strika plans to put the sparklings into adult frames as soon as they hatch?"

The little medic met her optics with his own, intense with his passion for his craft. "Yes. When she held the first of the planning meetings, before her scheme was broached to you, she told Skyquake and Dreadwing that was so, and that it had been done to her as well. I can't breach patient confidentiality, Borealis, but the discreditable things you know about Strika are a direct product of that process. If she still plans that, after all I've told her about the negative impact it has on a sparkling, then you _must_ go. If not for yourself, for your sparklings."

For the first time since she had come into med bay, her dainty servos relaxed. "What do I need to know to get there in one piece?"

The healer began to explain."Your gestation chamber is designed to expand, of course, but with three sparklings, all of them with co-genitors larger than you are, the rate of that expansion is outside normal parameters. Ordinarily, there's more chance of an egg being damaged by moving around too much inside a too-large chamber, so there are safety protocols that prevent an over-rapid expansion. At least once a joor, you need to scan the eggs, and if they are becoming too crowded, then you need to use this override code—" he transmitted it to her "—to allow one unit of expansion at a time until there's no longer any excess pressure. Your armor may keep up with the increased rate of expansion, but if it doesn't you'll have to loosen or remove panels as necessary. If you have to do that, you won't be able to land on earth. You'll have to land somewhere in the system that doesn't have an atmosphere and contact the Autobots for assistance.

"Now, I've known Ratchet by reputation for a long time. If you tell him that you have a medical emergency and ask for safe passage, he'll make sure no one hurts you."

"I've heard alot about him, not all of it good."

"Big surprise there: Megatron lied a lot. I didn't hear any of that slag before I got drafted. The propaganda he spread about Ratchet would have been more accurate if he'd said it about Knockout and Shockwave!"

Borealis shuddered delicately; she didn't want to be anywhere near either of those two.

"There's something else, and if you get caught you didn't hear it from me. Remember when Acid Storm came through here on his way to Earth before Megatron's last stand?"

"Of course I remember."

"Well, when that mech got drunk he couldn't shut off his vocalizer. He told me the command trine clutched, and they hid their hatchlings with the Fallen's brood. The last he heard, Megatron was raising them. Now, if that's true, then what do you want to bet the Autobots have Starscream's heir?"

Her faceplates lit up with the first genuine smile he had seen since she had agreed to mate with Strika. "But that would mean there is a new Winglord, and it isn't Strika!"

"Yes. If that's true, you won't be abandoning the flock if you go there. Now, like I said, you didn't hear that from me."

"I heard nothing." The little femme smiled at him, and he helped her slide down from the table. "Thank you, Sawbones."

The medic nodded. "These glitches are fighting on a rusting bridge. They'll keep it up until they all fall through. Get your hatchlings somewhere safe. Live your life." _That's more than I'll get to do._

Borealis nodded, then went back to her eyrie. Her trinemates were not there, and she couldn't find it in her to care. She studied the list of supplies that she needed to take with her, and planned the quickest way to collect them all.

Time was pressing on her much harder than her overlarge brood.

-Sidhe Chronicles-

(Mission City Base)

Diarwen smiled as she opened the circle and grounded its energy back to Earth. More people had attended the Imbolc Sabbat celebration than had been present at Yule. Several of the civilian bots had come out of curiosity, they had waited outside the circle in respectful silence. Diarwen wondered how much they had understood, but they had certainly sensed the energy when she had cast the circle. There was no need to convince Cybertronians that magic was real!

_"The circle is open but never broken. May the peace of the Goddess be ever in your heart. Merry meet and merry part and merry meet again." _That blessing chant was new, drawn from modern Pagan traditions, but it was close enough to the ones used by the Sidhe for millennia that Diarwen felt comfortable with it, now that she conducted ritual in English.

The participants and spectators mingled, and began the trek down the path to Excellion, where Prowl and Jazz had arranged for the Sabbat feast indoors. While the days were warming up, the desert was still cold at night.

Diarwen knelt at the altar to put the lid over the cauldron and snuff the incense and the candles. Their stubs and the remains of the humans' cakes and ale, she gave back to Mother Earth with a soft thanks. Optimus collected the ritual energon cubes, as the few drops left in them would pollute rather than feed the desert.

She stood to take up her sword, and raised it in salute to the Goddess before she sheathed the blade. After that, the act of taking down the altar was a well-practiced meditation.

By then, nearly everyone had drawn ahead. Optimus extended his servo, offering her a ride, and Diarwen settled herself comfortably on his shoulder. He carried the hot cauldron, which was not a problem for him.

Buzzard Rock rose black and mysterious behind the circle of small candles half-buried in the sand, which would continue to celebrate the light of Imbolc for as long as they burned. She had carefully swept away anything that might catch their flame, in order to make it safe to leave them, just as she had done nearly every Imbolc for all of her adult life.

They passed east of the hangars, where it was still early enough for there to be a good deal of light and noise, and from there, followed the new road to the construction site and Excellion's landing pad.

As soon as they rounded the last curve and Excellion came in sight, Diarwen smiled and said, "Look at the perimeter. Those little walkway lights look like he has a circle of his own."

"Those are new, for the benefit of the NEST troops, so that they will know when they are walking on Excellion. If he should need to transform, and they are there, they will end up in one of his passenger compartments," Optimus replied, with a deep rumble of laughter.

Diarwen's clear laughter was a soprano descant. "_Acushla, _I hope that he would recall we cannot maglock to his plating! That could be quite a ride."

"Indeed it could."

Optimus continued up to Excellion's main entrance. The cityformer greeted him and opened the hatch, and the sound of feasting drifted joyfully from a nearby room.

Optimus left the still-hot cauldron safely off the walkway.

Buzzsaw and Rumble were just inside, along with Thoroughfare, a gray and green member of Excellion's civilian militia, who was guarding them. Thoroughfare snapped to attention, and offered the fist to chestplate salute of the Altihexian region where Tyger Pax had been located. Optimus returned it, greeting the bot by name, which clearly startled him. The civilians had yet to grow accustomed to Prime's first-among-equals attitude, but they appreciated it when they saw evidence of it.

Prime turned to their little POWs and sent glyphs asking if their needs were being met.

They both nodded short bows, still getting used to the idea of acting like civilized mecha around Autobots. Buzzsaw said, "Thoroughfare allowed me to stretch my wings a little. We are adjusting."

Diarwen thought that they probably were. Ratchet had installed monitors that allowed Prowl to keep track of them at all times and disabled their weapons and long-range comms, and they had been assigned quarters aboard Excellion, where they had a guard at all times. Buzzsaw may have been allowed to fly, but she wasn't going far while her sparkmate had to stay behind with Thoroughfare.

Their lives were no more restrictive than those of any other captured Cons had been before they decided to swear fealty to the Prime. That was not a step the two of them were yet ready to make, but they were not unhappy with their situation in the meantime. They were safe, they had enough energon, if none to spare, and no one mistreated them. The war was over, and they had been given the opportunity to repatriate.

Diarwen asked, "Have you had your rations yet?"

Buzzsaw shook her helm. "No, Prime Consort."

Diarwen accepted the title gracefully. She had lived most of her life in a royal court. Although she was still learning the specifics of what would be required of her here, she was familiar with the basics. "You are welcome to join us if you wish. Your guard as well," Diarwen said, nodding to Thoroughfare. "Everyone is welcome."

The three of them went inside. Optimus shared a silent conversation with Excellion for a moment, then he and his love joined the festivities.

(End)


End file.
